by Sharon Sala
“Day before yesterday, a man answering Beatty Andrews’s description bought a bus ticket to Texas.”
Sullivan’s gut drew. “Sweet Jesus,” he muttered.
“My sentiments exactly.”
Sullivan combed his hand through his hair and then reached toward the dash for a roll of antacids. “What time is it in Texas?”
“Now?” Gianelli asked.
“Yes, now. You think the nut who tried to kill her is going to wait until daylight to announce himself?”
“It’s almost six A.M. here. I think they’re an hour earlier.”
“This is going to be a hell of a way to wake up,” Sullivan muttered.
Gianelli frowned. “You really think Andrews went after her?”
“Remember that room? Why the hell do you think he went to Texas?” Sullivan growled. “He got hungry for barbecue?”
“Yeah, you’re right. You got the number?”
“Somewhere,” Sullivan said, flipping through his notebook. “Yeah, it’s here. Look, after I call Rachel Austin, I’m calling the captain, then heading for home. This calls for a change of strategy.”
“Yeah,” Gianelli said. “Talk to you later.”
The line went dead in Sullivan’s ear. He tilted his notebook toward the streetlight, then punched in the number.
He had no way of knowing that the storms that had been brewing over west Texas had finally erupted, or that the phones and the power had gone out over an hour ago in Mirage and would be out for the rest of the day. All he knew was that when the busy signal sounded in his ear, he felt sick to his stomach. He took a deep breath and began dialing, repeating the procedure over and over until he finally gave up in disgust and called the local police instead. To his dismay, the same thing occurred. After calling a long-distance operator for assistance and learning that an entire area of west Texas was blacked out and incommunicado, he’d run out of options. There had to be another way to get in touch with the police there. Also, if the power was out, the authorities might not have received the all-points bulletin on Beatty Andrews. He reached for the phone again, only this time to call his captain. It was early. He hoped the man was at least out of bed.
Beatty Andrews felt weightless in the vast space of west Texas. He’d gotten off the bus in Odessa, realizing as he rechecked his map that he should have stayed on for another two stops. It was midnight, and the rain that was falling was coming down in cold sheets. He pulled his jacket a little closer around his neck and huddled beneath the roof of the bus stop, then took a deep breath, marveling at the smell of fresh, clean air. Even in the dark, this place was like another world. He was almost forty years old, and he’d never been west of the Hudson River until now. He needed to rent a car, and hoped he still remembered how to drive. Although he kept his driver’s license updated, it had been years since he’d been behind the wheel of a car.
A strong gust of wind blew rain against his face. He squinted, then shuddered, trying to decide what to do next.
“Hey, mister.”
Beatty turned. A tall black man wearing a uniform was standing in the doorway.
“You talking to me?” Beatty asked.
“You see any other fool standing out in the rain?” the man drawled.
Beatty flushed.
“You need a cab?”
Beatty thought. “I suppose that I do.”
“I’ll call one for you,” the man said, and disappeared back inside.
Beatty leaned back against the building, feeling a bit better about things after all. He had a plan. He would get a room for the rest of the night. In the morning he would rent a car, then find Rachel Austin. It didn’t occur to him that he still had to find Mirage, then the Bookout Ranch, before he could find Rachel. His mind was small, accepting only so many problems at a time.
A few minutes later a yellow and black car turned a corner and headed his way. He glanced inside the bus station. The black man was staring at him. He waved his thanks, and then made a run for the cab.
“Where to?” the cab driver asked.
“A motel. I’m not picky. I just need a place to wait out the rain.”
The driver took off. Beatty leaned back in the cab and, not for the first time, wished he’d thought to pack a bag. A change of clothes would be nice. Then he shook off the thought. First things first, and comfort was low on his list of priorities.
A short while later, fresh from a shower, he crawled between the sheets. As he closed his eyes, he prayed that his sleep would be dreamless. He was so tired of the ghosts.
Nineteen
Houston had been up for hours, and by the time the brunt of the storm had blown over, he was outside, checking the house and outbuildings for damage.
Rachel had gone as far as the front porch steps. She knew that Houston felt easier in his mind when she was somewhere within the range of his voice, and she was tired of being cooped up in the house. Sitting on the steps and absorbing rays of intermittent sunshine was refreshing. Even though the storm had passed, the moisture-laden wind had dampened her hair and her clothes. Taco was lying in the grass near her feet. Every now and then he would get up and touch his nose to her leg, wait for her hand upon his head, and then flop back down with a soft grunt.
Rachel didn’t know what it was all about, but she accepted his behavior as concern. Her damp hair felt heavy on her neck. She thought about going into the house for a band to tie it up, but that would mean moving, and she wasn’t ready to budge. Between the storm and making love with Houston, her rest last night had been brief.
She propped her elbows on her knees and lowered her head, lightly massaging her scalp as she waited for Houston to come back. It was while she was looking down that she saw the flash of light. It disappeared so swiftly that she paid it no mind. She’d had them before: images from her memory that seemed so terribly real. She likened them to a ghost pain, the kind an amputee gets even after his limb is gone.
She sighed and lifted her head. The wind was changing. The old house had quaked beneath the force of last night’s wind. As badly as they needed rain, she hated to think of weathering another storm inside the old walls. And then she reminded herself that it had withstood much in its lifetime, and should certainly withstand some more.
The wind was getting stronger, whipping her hair into her face. Besides the tangles she would have to deal with, she could only imagine what it must look like. With mental effort, she made herself get up. There was no use putting it off any longer. She needed to braid it, or at least put it up.
Taco whined.
“Be right back, boy.”
As she turned, something moved at the corner of her vision, but this time she paused. Her heart skipped a beat as she remembered the doctor’s prediction. Was this her imagination, too? She covered her eyes and took several slow, deep breaths, then dropped her hands and took another step. It was still there, a light emerging from a sea of darkness. Her focus was so intense that her eyes began to burn.
“Rachel. Are you all right?”
She jumped. “Houston! I didn’t hear you walk up.”
He slid a hand up the back of her neck, feeling the weight of her hair.
“Baby, your hair is wet, and so are your clothes.”
She wanted to scream. She wanted to shout. She wanted to throw her arms around Houston’s neck. She wanted his face to be the first thing she saw. Instead she said nothing for fear it was all a trick of her mind.
“I know. I was just going to put it up.”
“Need some help?”
“No.” She started inside, and then stopped and turned. Again a faint blur of shadows caught her attention; it was like looking through a microscope and watching an amoeba in a constant state of fission.
“What’s wrong?” Houston asked.
“Uh . . . the storm. I didn’t ask. Is everything all right?”
Houston frowned. “There are some loose shingles on the roof and a piece of tin blew off the barn, but other than that, we’re ok
ay. You get some dry clothes on, okay?”
She nodded and went inside. But her heart was pounding as she made her way to her room. Long after she had changed her clothes and put up her hair, she sat in a chair by the window, staring into her mind, waiting for a light to come on.
Beatty drove down the main street of Mirage with a smile on his face. A map of Texas was unfolded on the seat beside him, and the handwritten instructions to Houston Bookout’s ranch lay on top of that. He stopped at a red light, staring curiously at the people he saw on the streets. Never in his life had he seen land so vast and empty, or a town as small as Mirage. Even the mode of dress was different. Except for a man he saw going into a bank, he had yet to see someone in ordinary dress slacks. Of course, he hadn’t really “done” Mirage, only stopped at a convenience store to ask for directions and refuel his car. Once he’d completed his mission, he had no intention of stopping to refuel. He would be headed for the nearest station to catch a bus back home. He’d already made arrangements with the rental car agency that he would call and tell them where to pick it up. Beyond that, he couldn’t think.
The light turned green. He accelerated carefully through the intersection, taking care not to draw attention to himself. All of those soldier-of-fortune magazines he’d read were paying off. He was covering his tracks in the best way he knew how. His pulse kicked as he thought of the possible dangers that lay ahead. Yes, he knew where to find the Bookout Ranch, but he didn’t know how many people he would encounter there. He shifted nervously in the seat and took a quick look at the note on the seat beside him. He needed to turn left at the second stop sign past the light.
When a police car suddenly pulled out of the alley and proceeded to drive down the street ahead of him, his heart skipped a beat.
County sheriff. No big deal, he told himself. There’s no way they can know. There’s no way anyone can know. Then he reminded himself of his ace in the hole: the gun he’d bought early this morning. It had cost him plenty to buy it without registering. But from the looks of the man behind the counter of the Odessa Pawn Shop, it wasn’t the first time he’d broken the law. When Beatty had held it in his hands, cradling the blue steel and fingering the empty cylinder of the revolver, he’d been shaken by the power he felt. No more long-distance paybacks for him. He would be face-to-face with Rachel Austin when he finished his mission.
He was so consumed by his desire for revenge that he paid no attention to the gathering storm clouds or the darkening sky. And even if he’d noticed, he would have thought nothing more than that rain was imminent. With one more glance at the directions beside him, he headed out of town.
Houston pulled his new pickup into the barn just as Kenny Monday parked in front of his house. He’d seen him coming down the driveway but wanted to get the vehicle beneath some kind of shelter before this next storm hit. There was a faint cast of green to the darkening sky that he knew could be a forerunner of hail.
He waved to Kenny, who motioned that he was going in the house with Rachel. His friend was smitten by his woman and made no apologies for the fact. Houston grinned as he headed for the house. Poor Kenny. One of these days he was going to fall for a woman and fall hard, and when it happened, Houston hoped he was around to witness it.
Then the wind shifted. Houston paused and frowned as he looked up into the gathering clouds. A banging noise suddenly sounded back toward the barn. He turned to look. Another piece of tin had come loose. If he didn’t nail it down, this next wave of storms would take it off, too. He headed toward the house, lengthening his stride with each step until he was almost running.
Rachel felt antsy, as if there was something important that she’d forgotten to do. When Kenny called out from the door, she was actually glad to hear his voice.
“Kenny, come in.”
“I’m already in,” he said.
“Houston’s in the barn.”
“Yeah, I saw him,” he told her. “He’s on his way up.”
Rachel hugged herself as the wind whistled around the eaves of the little house.
“I think we’re in for another storm. Is the sky very dark?”
“Like the inside of a witch’s heart,” Kenny muttered. “On another note, did you know your phone is out?”
Rachel nodded. “It’s been out since before daybreak.”
“I reported the outage for you,” Kenny said.
“Good,” Rachel said. “Although I doubt that they’ll be able to work on anything until the storms have all passed.”
Houston’s footsteps sounded on the porch. Kenny turned. “Good, here’s Houston,” he said. “As soon as I deliver my messages, I’m out of here.”
“You mean you don’t want to weather this measly little blow with us?” Houston teased as he came inside.
Kenny grinned. “I don’t want to weather any blow, measly or otherwise, and you know it. I still have nightmares about nearly freezing to death last Christmas Eve.” Then he turned toward Rachel. “Did he tell you that’s how we met?”
Rachel shook her head. “No.”
Kenny grimaced. “I’ll have to tell you about it, but on a cloudless day. Needless to say, I no longer trust Texas weather.”
“So what brings you out?” Houston asked.
Kenny glanced at Rachel and raised his eyebrows. “Just some work issues. Got a minute?”
Houston nodded. “We can talk on the way back to the barn. Some of the tin has come loose. If I don’t nail it down before the storm hits, it’ll wind up in Dallas in some woman’s fancy backyard.”
Rachel tensed. “Is it going to be bad again?”
Houston caressed her cheek. “It’s going to blow, that’s for sure. But don’t worry, baby. I’ll be right here beside you. If we have to, we’ll head for the cellar.”
Rachel began to relax. “I’d forgotten about that,” she said.
“What cellar?” Kenny asked. “I didn’t know there was one on the place.”
“It’s below the kitchen,” Houston said. “Actually, the door is underneath the kitchen table.”
Rachel shuddered. “Are there spiders, do you think?”
Houston hugged her quickly. “No, baby. No spiders. I keep it sprayed and swept. And there’s a flashlight on the shelf to the right that—” He hesitated, but it was too late to take back what he’d already said. “Sorry. I didn’t think.”
Rachel reached for his face, feeling the frown lines across his forehead as well as a muscle jerking in his jaw.
“Houston, stop it,” she muttered. “Just because you still exist in a world with light doesn’t mean you have to apologize. Okay?”
He sighed. ‘‘Okay.”
A quick gust of wind popped the screens in the windows. Houston glanced out.
‘‘I’d better hurry if I’m going to get that tin nailed down. Kenny, you better talk fast or plan on staying here until it’s over.”
‘‘I’ll talk fast,” he said. ‘‘Take off, I’m right behind you.”
When Houston went to get his tools, Kenny took Rachel by the hand.
‘‘As always, pretty lady, it’s been a pleasure. Stay low and away from windows.”
Rachel smiled. ‘‘I will. Come back when you can stay longer.”
‘‘It’s a deal,” Kenny said, and then bolted out the door, hurrying to catch up with Houston.
‘‘So what’s up?” Houston asked.
‘‘They caught the thief who’s been stealing drip. It wasn’t kids after all, but a man named Orin Thompson.”
Houston frowned. ‘‘I know Orin. He’s got a wife and six kids and stays down on his luck.”
Kenny nodded. ‘‘That sounds like the man. Anyway, Sheriff Bullard is waiting for you to press charges. As soon as your phone’s working, give him a call.”
Houston hesitated. ‘‘Did he say why he did it?”
Kenny frowned. ‘‘Does it matter?”
‘‘It does to me.”
Kenny sighed. ‘‘He said he needed gas to get to work.”<
br />
‘‘Where does he work?”
‘‘Unpacking groceries after hours at some supermarket chain in Midland.”
Houston’s frown deepened. If he pressed charges, the man would go to jail. Then the wife and six kids would wind up on welfare, worse off than they were now.
‘‘Tell Bullard I said to let him go.”
Kenny’s mouth dropped. ‘‘Do what?”
‘‘Then I want you to offer Orin Thompson a job working for me at Cherokee Oil. You told me that Wilson Baker was moving. We’ll be needing a new pumper. If Orin doesn’t know how, get somebody to teach him.”
Kenny shook his head. ‘‘Do you think that’s smart business? If word gets around that you give jobs to people who steal from you, we could have a run on the whole field.”
But Houston remained firm. ‘‘I don’t know if it’s smart, but I know I’ll sleep better if you do what I say.”
Kenny sighed. ‘‘Consider it done. And for what it’s worth, Houston Bookout, you’re a hell of a man.”
‘‘No,” Houston said. ‘‘It’s just that I’ve been where Orin is now.”
Surprise etched itself across Kenny’s face. ‘‘You mean you got caught stealing?”
‘‘No, but I’ve been hard up and hurting, too. And I didn’t have a wife and six kids counting on me for their next meal.”
A distant rumble of thunder rolled across the prairie. Kenny glanced at the sky.
‘‘I’m out of here,” he said quickly. ‘‘I’ll use my cell phone to call Bullard after I’m in the car.”
‘‘And I’d better get that tin nailed down before the wind gets any stronger. Talk to you later.”
The two men parted company. Kenny drove away as Houston reached the barn. A few minutes later there was nothing to be heard but the constant blast of wind and the intermittent thud of a hammer on tin.
Beatty drove nervously, staying so far to the right side of the paved county road that his wheels were on the verge of dropping off onto the shoulder. Even though he knew he was heading in the right direction, he hated the lack of landmarks. There were no storefronts to guide him, no grocers on the corner where he could ask further directions, only the periodic clumps of thin, scraggly trees and an occasional gathering of cattle. There had been that sign at a crossroads a mile or so back: County 104. He frowned. What kind of address was that? County 104? Out here everything looked alike. If that sign someday disappeared, would everyone who lived here get lost? Could they ever find their way back home?
