Cut and Run

by Mary Burton

“I saw her around. She wasn’t here long, though.”

  “Where do you think she went?”

  He shrugged. “People come and go. That’s the way it is.”

  “Did the cops ever talk to you?” Macy asked.

  His eyes narrowed. “Are you a cop?”

  “No, man,” she lied. “Just a girl wondering if I’m even playing with the right puzzle pieces.”

  He laughed. “That happens to me.”

  She smiled as she studied the doodles made on the picture on the poster. “Seems like people have forgotten her. Like it’s all a joke.”

  “People forget, but I don’t.”

  “What do you remember?”

  “She was nice. She was scared. She shouldn’t have been on the street.”

  No kid should have. “When did you see her last?”

  “I don’t remember.” He dropped his gaze and wrapped his arms around his folded knees.

  Why the hell she was talking to a homeless guy in the middle of East Austin about this girl was beyond her.

  “Okay, well, thanks anyway.”

  He didn’t respond, and she figured the chances of him eating a hamburger were slim, but she kept moving down with her sights set on the car’s location and her attention on the search for the Ranger’s number.

  What happened next came so fast.

  Headlights flicked on and tires spun over the pavement, kicking up gravel. An engine revved and had her turning. She saw the headlights moving, the truck quickly picking up speed and aimed directly toward her. She started running and took a hard left onto Comal Street, pumping her arms, knowing the truck was gaining on her.

  In the next instant, she felt metal crashing into the back of her left hip with such force it sent her flying to the right onto the pavement like she were no heavier than a rag doll. Her backpack flew into the shadows seconds before her head, back, and torso hit the ground hard. Brakes skidded and the tires kicked up rocks as the truck turned around.

  Headlights glared on her broken body, and she knew one arm was bent at a sharp right angle and a femur bone jutted out of her thigh. A deep gash on her forehead oozed blood that dripped into her eyes, blurring her vision. Adrenaline rocketed through her body, but she knew it wouldn’t last much longer. She’d been careless, and it was going to cost her her life.

  In the distance, she heard the homeless dude screaming as pain shot through her body. She raised her head slightly and saw that he was waving his arms as she struggled to hang on to consciousness. She tried to drag herself away, but pain paralyzed her.

  Truck wheels screeched in reverse, away from the approach of the flashing blue lights of a cop car. Agony hammered her body as she looked up at the stars, heard the man yelling now for an ambulance.

  Macy thought about Jack, her mother, Faith, and the stones she’d seen on that barren stretch of land. She thought about the poster of the missing girl. Would she also die like that lost girl and just be forgotten?

  As much as Macy wanted to say something, she couldn’t form the words to whoever was now pressing two fingers to her throat.

  “Hold on for me,” the woman said.

  But Macy’s grip on consciousness was slipping fast as the darkness rose up around her, pried her fingers free, and sucked her under to what she accepted as death.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Tuesday, June 26, 4:00 a.m.

  The early-morning air was humid and thick as Hayden pulled up to the flashing lights of three Austin cop cars parked on the perimeter of Comal Pocket Park. His partner’s black SUV was parked across the street, and a collection of news vans had already gathered down the block on the other side of the yellow crime scene tape.

  Out of his vehicle, he drew in a deep breath and took a moment to settle his hat on his head before he strode down the side street toward the crime scene and the female uniformed officer. “I’m Captain Hayden with the Texas Rangers.”

  “Yes, sir. Officer Holcombe. Ranger Mike Brogan is over at the impact site.”

  He’d worked with Brogan a few times. The tall, lean Texan, though only in his early thirties, was sharp and worked harder than any two men. He kept his brown hair cut short, his shirts starched, and his boots polished. The guy was all business.

  As Hayden pulled on black latex gloves, he ducked under the tape, and his weathered boots crunched on the uneven paved sidewalk that ran along the park’s chain-link fence. A series of yellow numbered cones marked several sets of skid marks. Preserving them would help tell the story later in court.

  Brogan squatted by a large patch of blood and an ankle boot, a collection of used gauze pads, IV bags, and discarded syringes close by. Hayden gave his name to the forensic technician, whose job was to record every visitor to the crime scene. No one came in or out of a crime scene without leaving something behind, and all the comings and goings could be an issue at trial.

  Hayden moved closer for a better look. “I was told it was a hit-and-run.”

  Brogan stood. “That’s right.”

  “Is the victim dead or alive?”

  “Alive, barely. But she’s in bad shape, and there’s a good chance she won’t make it. Head injuries, broken leg, and a mangled arm.”

  “Where is the victim now?”

  “She has been transported and is in surgery.”

  “Witnesses?” Hayden asked.

  “A homeless man flagged down a patrol car. As the cop rolled up, the hit-and-run vehicle sped off. The officer saw the woman’s condition and opted not to chase but give first aid.” He glanced at his notebook and flipped through pages filled with precise notes.

  “Do we know who the victim is?” Hayden asked.

  “You’re going to love this.”

  “Somehow, I doubt it.”

  “We found her backpack on the sidewalk. It must have flown off of her when she was hit. Her name is Macy Crow. She’s an FBI agent.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Card-carrying, gun-toting FBI agent. Do you know of any FBI operations in Austin? I know a few bank-fraud cases, but I doubt there’s much bank fraud happening in this park at night.” He handed Hayden the agent’s badge.

  “Macy Crow?”

  “That’s right.”

  “We had another victim of the same surname in the medical examiner’s office late yesterday. His name was Jack Crow. I spoke to Macy Crow yesterday on the phone.”

  Hayden studied the picture for several moments. He could feel his expression hardening. Macy Crow had blond hair, a narrow face, and sharp blue eyes, but what seized his attention was her stunning likeness to Faith McIntyre. “Is this some kind of joke, Brogan?”

  The Ranger looked at him as if he were a little insulted. “Why would you think it’s a joke, Captain?”

  Hayden studied the woman’s picture again. The resemblance was too close to ignore. He knew enough about Faith to know she was the only child of parents now deceased. “She looks like our medical examiner, Faith McIntyre.”

  “I thought the same,” Brogan said, shaking his head. “What do you make of that?”

  “I don’t know. When was Ms. Crow struck by the vehicle?”

  “Two hours ago.”

  Hayden had left Faith not long before that. She’d been leaving the Driskill, and he’d seen her get into the car from his hotel window. Of all nights, he’d opted to splurge on a view, thinking she’d enjoy it. But the sudden jolt of concern had him reaching for his phone. “And you’re sure the victim wasn’t Dr. McIntyre?”

  “Nothing to suggest she’s the doc. Why do you ask?”

  Hayden ignored the question and dialed Faith’s number. She picked up on the second ring, and her voice was remarkably clear.

  “Faith McIntyre.”

  “Doc, this is Mitchell Hayden. Sounds like you’re up.”

  “Yes, I am. What can I do for you?”

  He heard the curiosity in her tone, but she was too careful to make any kind of innuendo until she understood the true nature of the call. “I’m at a c
rime scene, and there was some confusion. But it looks like it’s been cleared up.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “If you need a body examined, I can come in.”

  Hayden glanced down at the blood and discarded bandage packets. “So far the victim is still alive. I’ll touch base in the morning. Sorry to trouble you.”

  “Okay. Hopefully the victim won’t be coming my way.”

  “Did you speak to Jack Crow’s daughter?”

  “We traded voicemail messages. We’ve not spoken directly. She was headed to Austin. Why?”

  “I’ve got to run. I’ll call you in the morning.” One way or the other, Faith would have to be told about Macy Crow.

  “What’s going on?” she asked. “Something’s off.”

  “I’ll explain all in the morning. Trust me on this.”

  “Sure. But I want the full story tomorrow,” Faith said.

  “Understood.” He hung up, realizing he was deeply relieved Faith had picked up the phone.

  Brogan held up a bagged cell phone and handed it to Hayden. “Her last search on her phone was for the Texas Rangers.”

  “Did she place a call?”

  “No. I also called Quantico, and the ASAC confirmed she’s an agent, but he couldn’t or wouldn’t say what she was working on. Thought maybe you could give your sister a call and find out what she knows about Macy Crow.”

  He texted his sister, Special Agent Kate Hayden. She traveled with an FBI profiling team and had made it a standing policy that Hayden and his mother text rather than call. She promised to respond as quickly as she could and had always kept her word. In his text, he supplied the victim’s name, description, and a request for information on her latest case. Moments later he received a curt Roger that.

  Kate was brilliant, and though her specialty was forensic linguistics, she was a woman of few words. Some saw her silence as arrogance, but he knew Kate was always thinking and processing and often forgot about social niceties. They were two peas in a pod according to their mother.

  “She’ll get back to us.” Hayden slid the phone back in his breast pocket.

  “Where’s your sister these days?” Brogan asked.

  “No idea.”

  “A few buddies of mine in San Antonio say she’s as charming as you.”

  Kate had solved a complex case in San Antonio recently but had ruffled a few feathers in the process. “I’m still the nice one.”

  “Shit.” Brogan adjusted his hat, shaking his head. “Remind me to stay clear of your sister.”

  “Macy Crow is in town because her old man was murdered. Since she’s FBI, I’m guessing she wanted to know more about what happened.”

  Brogan nodded. “Takes matters into her own hands. Something we both would have done. So what the hell was she doing in this part of town?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Despite what was portrayed on television, the FBI didn’t just roll into town and take over investigations. They worked in conjunction with local law enforcement, and when they had an operation, they kept the Texas Rangers apprised.

  “Did the responding officer say anything else?” Hayden asked.

  “Said the victim tried to speak but was incoherent. She then lost consciousness.”

  “Is an Austin PD detective on scene?” Hayden asked.

  “Detective Lana Franklin is en route. She’s juggling two other homicides tonight.”

  “Where is Crow’s backpack?”

  “Over there in the shadows where it fell. No one other than me has touched it yet,” Brogan said.

  “Let’s have a look at it.” Hayden signaled to the forensic technician what he was doing and waited for her to follow with her camera.

  As the technician snapped pictures, he moved around the bloodstain on the road and through the grass to the red backpack now lying up against the chain-link fence of the park. The backpack was marked with a yellow evidence tag. He knelt and unzipped it and found a wallet, a hotel room key, and several fast-food receipts.

  “Where’s the officer who responded?” Hayden asked.

  “Officer Beth Holcombe is over by her vehicle,” Brogan said.

  He rose, asked the technician for pictures and an inventory of the bag, and then found Officer Holcombe. She was talking to an older man wearing disheveled clothes and carrying a large grocery bag crammed full of clothes and food.

  Holcombe, midsized with an athletic build, had pulled back her black hair into a neat bun at the base of her neck.

  Hayden extended his hand and introduced himself and Brogan. “Officer.”

  She shook his hand and then laid her hand on the forearm of the man beside her. “Rangers, this is Sammy Kent. He lives in the doorways up and down this street, which is my beat. Sammy and I cross paths a lot. Not much happens here without him seeing it.”

  Sammy hovered close to Officer Holcombe as his dark eyes shifted from Hayden to Brogan, sizing both men up. His green jacket looked to be army issue, as did his boots.

  “Mr. Kent, my name is Mitchell Hayden.”

  Sammy locked eyes with him. “You a Texas Ranger?”

  “Yes, sir, I am. Did you serve?”

  Sammy gripped his bag closer to him. “I did. Operation Desert Storm.”

  “Thank you for your service, Mr. Kent. How long were you in?”

  “Three years.”

  Three years meant he’d not finished his first enlistment, which ran four years plus. “Were you injured?”

  “Medical discharge. But I wasn’t injured.”

  Many of the homeless had mental health issues, which meant whatever Sammy told him could be suspect. “What can you tell me about what happened?”

  “Lady was walking down the street, and she stopped and gave me a twenty. Told me to get something to eat.”

  “She say anything else?”

  “Asked me about a missing girl. Showed me a picture.”

  “Who was the girl?”

  “Paige.”

  “Were you able to tell her anything?” Hayden asked.

  “Nope. The earth swallowed up Paige. It’s done it before, and it’ll do it again.”

  Hayden checked his rising frustration. It wouldn’t help Ms. Crow. “Where was she going?”

  “That way.” Sammy shrugged, sniffed, and nervously rattled the change in his pockets. “Toward the park.”

  “How did the woman seem? Was she upset or worried?”

  “Sad, maybe. But she wasn’t worried or nothing. She passed me and wasn’t more than fifty feet ahead when a dark pickup came out of nowhere. When the truck hit her, she flew through the air like a rag doll. She hit the ground so hard I thought she was dead. Freaked me out, and I went running toward her screaming. Officer Holcombe came to the rescue right away.”

  “You’ve met the woman before?” Hayden asked.

  The old man shook his head. “I’ve never seen her before.”

  “And she just came up to you?” Hayden asked.

  “Yep. Came out of nowhere.”

  “Did she say why she was here?” Brogan asked.

  “No.”

  “We got more black pickups in Texas than I can shake a stick at,” Hayden said. “Did you happen to recognize the driver?”

  “No. Never saw the face. But I think it was a guy. Driver had on a baseball hat,” Sammy said. “It all happened in seconds.”

  “Thank you, Sammy,” Hayden said.

  “Is she still alive?”

  “So far,” Hayden said.

  “I saw a guy fly like that once,” Sammy said. “After an IED blew up. He lost his legs. And he was screaming something terrible. But this woman that was hit tonight . . .” He paused to steady his voice and press fingertips to his tearing eyes. “She didn’t scream.”

  Hayden patted the man on the shoulder, waiting for him to steady himself before he turned to the policewoman. “Officer Holcombe, are there security cameras posted along the street?”

  Holcombe nodded. “Several of the businesses
around here have them. And there’s my body camera and dashcam footage.”

  “I’ll want to see that right away.” Hayden fished out a twenty from his pocket. “Officer, can you buy Sammy a meal?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Keep me posted on how she’s doing?” Holcombe said. “She’s one of us.”

  “I will.” Hayden’s phone rang, and he saw his sister’s name on the display. He walked away from Sammy, Brogan, and Holcombe. “Kate.”

  “I made calls regarding Macy Crow.” Her tone was clipped and sounded slightly annoyed.

  It was always directly to the point with Kate. No “How are you doing?” or “How’s the weather?” Small talk was foreign to his sister. However, when Sierra died and Kate had been in northern Maine leading an investigation, she’d driven three hours to the nearest airport and taken a red-eye so she could be present at the funeral. He’d not spoken to her or anyone that day. He’d been so broken and angry. After the visitation at their mother’s house, Kate had left Austin. These days, he and his sister shared a mutual respect and had each other’s backs, but no one would ever describe them as warm and sensitive.

  “Give me what you have,” he said.

  “Macy Sunday Crow, age thirty, was attached to Quantico, Virginia. She’s also spent time in the Denver, Seattle, and Kansas City field offices.”

  “She looks much younger than thirty.” He’d thought the same about Faith and had been surprised when Sierra had told him she was a pathologist.

  “For the last six years, she’s worked juvenile sex trafficking cases because she can pass as a teenager. She broke a big case about two months ago and was just promoted. On Sunday, she called her boss, said her father had died and she was taking personal time.”

  “Does she have a boyfriend or other family?”

  “No to a boyfriend and yes to a brother who lives in the Austin area. I have no address for the brother.”

  Neither did he. So far there’d been no sign of Jack Crow’s son. “Any cases she was working that might have triggered this attack?”

  “Like I said, that human trafficking case was big. According to the woman’s file, she’s not afraid to mix it up. She’ll throw down with the best of them.”

  Kate could have been describing Faith. “Thanks, Kate.”