Cut and Run

by Mary Burton

  As anxious as she was to get to the ranch, she knew this took precedence. “Send her in.”

  Faith spent nearly a half hour with the young widow and mother of two. She explained how her husband’s death was due to genetics, and the weakness in the vessel would have been very likely inoperable even if it had been detected. It was terrible genetics.

  After the meeting, she grabbed her purse and headed toward her car, checking her messages for the first time in a couple of hours. Hayden had called. She listened to his message and then texted him back, explaining she’d received Macy’s message.

  She reached her car and got in. She sat, absorbing the day’s residual heat radiating from the seats. Her phone buzzed, and she glanced at the display. Mitchell Hayden.

  She drew in a breath and answered the phone. “Hayden.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In my car, but still at the medical center,” she said.

  “You’ve read Macy’s email?”

  She sat straighter. “I have. How did you know about it?”

  “We found her computer in her hotel room. Why didn’t you call me immediately?”

  “I only just received it. It’s been nonstop on this end.”

  Again, they were trapped between a personal relationship and a professional one. Distance and anonymity had worked well for them up to this point. But this case was twisting around them both, forcing them to interact with each other more than either had originally planned.

  “I’m five minutes away. Stay put.”

  “Understood.”

  She grabbed her purse and got out of her car, and in just under five minutes, a dark SUV pulled up beside her and the passenger window rolled down.

  Hayden nodded to the empty passenger seat. “Let’s go.”

  She sensed his irritation as she got into the car. “I just planned to have a look around.”

  He shot her a glance. He pulled onto the main road and wove through town toward I-35. “Has Macy Crow sent you any other communication?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure about that?” An edge sharpened in his tone, and she sensed a line drawn between them. The Rangers were on one side and she on the other. Fine. So be it.

  “I would know if a twin communicated with me,” she said. “Those are the details that don’t normally slip by me too often.”

  He drove in silence for several miles and then asked in a softer tone that radiated genuine concern, “How are you holding up?”

  “Hayden, don’t patronize me. That’s about the one thing I can’t take right now. I like you better when you’re an SOB.”

  His frown telegraphed his own uneasiness with this new journey they were taking together into uncharted emotional territory.

  “And for the record, I feel like I’m trapped in an episode of The Twilight Zone,” she said.

  “I’ve been there before. Not a good place.”

  “No, it certainly isn’t.”

  She watched as the cityscape yielded to the rugged, brown countryside covered in scrub trees and cacti. She pulled up the email from Macy as he drove, referencing the map.

  Strong, weathered hands, which gripped the steering wheel and looked suited for hard work or a brawl, were so gentle when they ran over her skin.

  His watch was older, a throwback to the fifties. He’d always worn it, but she’d never asked about it. “Nice watch. You don’t strike me as the type to chase the vintage look.”

  He didn’t spare the watch a glance, but his pride was evident. “It was my grandfather’s, then my father’s. A tradition the oldest male inherits. Still keeps perfect time.”

  Faith countered, “My mother nurtured a deep reverence for her sixth-generation Texas lineage. Continuity was important to her. She and I would stand in front of the portrait of my great-grandmother, and she’d say, ‘Generations of stern stock like us. One day you’ll have a daughter and carry on the line.’”

  Faith had been proud to be the descendant of a strong line of women. And when she found out she was adopted, she realized she would never be a genuine standard-bearer for the Wallace women whose lineage ended with her mother.

  “And it bothers you?” he asked.

  “Sometimes.”

  “You saw how Jack Crow died. I’d bet you my watch he did that for Macy, who by all accounts is not his flesh and blood.”

  A sudden surge of sadness wrapped around her voice. “Don’t mind me. Feeling sorry for myself.”

  She clicked on the radio and selected a country song. They listened as he made his way through the still-congested evening traffic clogging up I-35. By the time he took their exit, there’d already been a fender bender up ahead and the sluggish traffic was coming to a stop.

  He turned right onto a rural route that wound farther west, closer to the Hill Country. Another five miles and he slowed as he approached a rusted mailbox. He took a right and plowed down the dusty driveway. The SUV kicked up blooms of dust.

  The driveway cut through fallow fields. In the distance Faith spotted a brick rancher surrounded by tall weeds, an old Ford truck on blocks, and several large oil drums.

  Hayden parked, but he didn’t get out right away. He studied the area. “Stay close to me. Don’t wander off.”

  “I’ve worked my share of crime scenes.”

  “Like I said, stay close.” He got out of the car, shrugged off his jacket, and tossed it in the back seat. His hand automatically went to the weapon on his hip. He touched it lightly as he appeared to go down a mental checklist.

  Faith joined him at the front of the SUV. She studied the house, knowing from experience that the least remarkable places could hide the worst horrors.

  “Let’s have a look at the house first.” He strode up the three front steps and tested the door handle. It was locked. The curtains were drawn over the large front display window, and the side windows were also covered. But the dust on the porch had been disturbed. And it wasn’t just from the one set of footprints that he had expected after Macy’s visit. He estimated there were at least three sets.

  He looked up and pointed to what Faith suddenly realized was a very small security camera.

  “A camera?” she said.

  “Not only will they know we’ve been here, but also Macy.”

  He walked around back and stepped onto a patio made of cracked stone pavers. Off to the side was a set of rusted patio furniture.

  Hayden’s boots crunched on the gravel lining the patio as he stepped out onto the dusty earth around it. The sun had cooled, and its light was dimming quickly now. Soon it would dip completely from the sky, but tonight would be a full moon.

  Hayden studied the land as if reading a book. He moved northwest thirty paces. Again he crouched and scooped up a handful of soil, slowly letting the dust trickle from his loose fist. “Have a look at this.”

  She moved up beside him and trailed her outstretched hand to the three stones spaced evenly apart. The land in front of each marker was slightly concave. “The soil is uneven.”

  “Yes, it is,” he said.

  She’d been to the sites of unmarked graves before, and she’d come to recognize the signs. When a body was buried and it decomposed, it bloated first; then when the flesh burst, it deflated. This rise and fall left cracks and indentions in the earth.

  The burnt-orange light cast a glow over good-sized stones that were maybe fifty pounds each and natural to the area. They could have been easily overlooked. However, when she really studied them, she realized they were arranged in a perfect line.

  “Gravestones?” she asked.

  He reached for his cell and stood. “I don’t know. But we need a team with ground-penetrating radar out here.”

  “We’re out of daylight.”

  “I’m calling the sheriff’s department, and I’ll ask them to guard this area until we can return in the morning.”

  “I don’t get it. Why did Jack Crow leave this address for his daughter? Why not just tell her?”


  “Maybe he couldn’t face her, but he needed to clear his conscience.”

  “He bought two burner phones before he died. We’ve only found one. We’ve got to find the other.”

  When Macy was four, she had gone on summer break with Jack to Galveston Island. She’d gotten tired of waiting for Jack to stop talking to the pretty lady at the snack bar and had gone to the edge of the pool. She had dipped her toe in, and the cool water had felt so good.

  She had been sure she could jump into the pool and scramble to the edge just as she’d done with her father. So she’d jumped into the cold water. However, she’d landed farther from the edge than she’d anticipated, and panic had immediately set in.

  She’d kicked against the cement bottom and clawed herself toward the sunlight flickering above. Her fingertips had broken the surface, and she had felt the air teasing her skin. But even as her little legs had kicked hard, they hadn’t created enough lift to propel her face above the surface so she could inhale air.

  She had sunk back down. Her fingers had slipped below the water’s surface. Her lungs had screamed for air, and terror had sliced through her body. The chlorine had burned her eyes and filled her nose.

  And then a hand had reached down from above and grabbed her by the back straps of her bathing suit and yanked her upward toward the blue sky.

  The heat of the sun had warmed her face as her mouth had opened and she’d gulped in air. Fear had given way to relief as she’d blinked and stared at the face of her father, whose frown had revealed a kind of fear she’d never seen before.

  “Pop!” She had sucked in more air as tears had welled in her eyes.

  Tanned fingers had brushed the strands of blond hair from her eyes, and a grin had tugged at the edges of a glower that scared most grown men. “Don’t you cry on me, Macy Crow. You’re safe and sound now. No need to cry. Jesus, your mother will kill me if she even knew I almost let you drown.” A sob had shuddered through her, and she had blinked back the tears. She’d sniffed and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  Macy had forgotten about that day from twenty-five years ago. And she remembered it now because she was sinking again to the bottom of another pool that was far deeper and darker. Pop wouldn’t be there for her this time.

  She tried to open her eyes and focus toward the sunlight, but her lids didn’t respond. She remained trapped in blackness. She wanted to kick her legs, flail her arms, push through the inky obscurity, and break the surface. But no matter how much she willed it, she couldn’t.

  In the distance, she heard hushed chatter and the beep of equipment. There were people around her. She wasn’t alone.

  Once she thought she heard her brother’s low and angry voice. But it vanished almost as soon as she heard it and was followed by more poking and prodding.

  “Dirk, throw me a lifeline! Pull me up! I’m here! I’m alive! Don’t leave me!”

  Macy couldn’t remain in the darkness. She knew something.

  Something important.

  She couldn’t quite remember what it was, but she was certain if she could reach the light and air, she could find the missing pieces and finish the puzzle.

  “Come on, Dirk, somebody, anybody. Pull me up! I’m right here, and I’m sinking fast.”

  It was just after ten when Faith pulled past the guard station at the entrance of her North Austin gated community. The townhouse development was less than five years old, and she’d taken out a hefty mortgage last year to buy her first adult home.

  Her row of townhomes was located toward the rear of the property and backed up to woods. The building’s sharp angles and modern lines could have been harsh and cold if not for the quirky combination of glass windows, tin roof, and wooden horizontal strips stained a warm honey brown. The building had an artistic vibe that blended with the water-efficient landscaping that provided touches of green cacti blended among rocks. There was a two-car garage space and metal steps that led up to the wooden front door with an ornate wrought iron handle. She’d been drawn to this home the moment she’d seen it.

  As she pulled into her driveway, her headlights caught the silhouette of a person sitting on her front steps. Tensing, she slowed and rolled down her window to get a better look. The figure was slight and wore a hoodie.

  “Who are you?” Faith asked as she reached for her phone. “How did you get past the guard? No, wait, don’t answer that. Tell it to the cops.”

  “Chill, Faith. It’s me, Kat.”

  Faith gripped her phone. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you,” the girl said.

  Faith’s heart was still jackhammering. “You’re supposed to be at the shelter.”

  “Well, I’m not. I’m here.”

  “How did you get here?” Faith asked.

  “Uber.”

  “You don’t have a credit card.”

  “I sweet-talked a visitor at the shelter. Said my mom was sick.”

  She liked the kid’s moxie. “What’s going on, Kat?”

  The girl approached her car, her hand gripping the strap of her backpack. “We need to talk.”

  “Is something wrong with the baby?”

  “We need to talk about DNA, Faith.”

  Out of her car, she closed the garage and climbed the front steps. She opened the door and clicked on the lights. “What about DNA?”

  “You registered your DNA with an ancestry site,” the girl said, following her inside.

  After Peter Slater Sr. died, she’d lost what she’d thought was her last connection to her past. She’d wanted to broach the subject of her adoption with Margaret, but had been waiting for her to regain her footing after her husband’s death. In April, in a moment of frustration, she’d tossed her DNA into the ever-growing pool of people searching for some clue about their family’s past.

  Faith had checked the site a few times, but she’d had no matches, which for now was fine. She had enough on her plate with work.

  “How do you know that?” Faith asked.

  “I’ll explain after I eat.” Kat looked from side to side. “I’m starving. Do you have anything you can whip up in the kitchen?”

  As annoyed as she was at the kid for showing up unannounced and dropping one of her bombshells, she wouldn’t press until Kat ate something. “Sure.”

  Inside, the foyer’s cathedral ceiling crisscrossed with beautiful wood beams. Hanging on the walls was an eclectic mix of paintings, photographs, and etchings. She’d collected some from around the world, but the majority of it had belonged to her mother and grandmother, who’d both loved art. Since Faith had been a little girl, her mother had told her that the women in their family loved art. Faith had never quite had her mother’s eye for it, but she’d inherited a deep appreciation.

  Kat studied the artwork. Like most who entered, she stopped and stared. “Pretty sweet. Where’d you get all this stuff?”

  “My grandmother, mother, and me collected this stuff from around the world. It’s all I have left of them.”

  “Cool.”

  “Each piece tells a story.”

  “But the way you’ve put it all together tells a bigger story. That’s kind of what I do with computers. I string a lot of code together to create something new.”

  Faith looked at the collection, realizing she’d never thought of the art as a whole. She’d always thought of the separate pieces and their unique stories. Now she realized she’d blended hers among her mother’s and grandmother’s and had told a new story.

  She set her purse and keys on a side table and reset the house alarm. She made her way down a long hallway to a modern, open kitchen. It was outfitted with a spacious marble island illuminated by three industrial pendant lights, stainless steel appliances that she rarely used, and white cabinets stocked with mostly unused dishes from her mother and grandmother.

  She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a loaf of bread, grapes, sparkling water, and several cheeses that had served as her dinner the last couple of nights.<
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  Kat dropped her backpack by the island and sat at one of the barstools. Through the glass doors of the upper cabinets, she openly studied the collection of handblown glassware and platters made by a favorite potter in North Carolina.

  Faith pulled the loaf of bread from its sleeve and sliced into it. She slathered mustard on the bread and then layered the bread with meat, cheese, and lettuce. She cut the sandwiches on a diagonal and arranged them neatly on plates with handfuls of grapes.

  Kat took several bites. “I’m starving all the time.”

  “The baby is growing.” She handed her a paper towel and then poured her a glass of sparkling water.

  “Starting to feel like an alien invader is in my body.”

  “You have less than six weeks to go.”

  Kat set down her sandwich and wiped her fingers with the paper towel. “That reminds me. That lady from the adoption group called again. She wants to meet. But I keep putting it off.”

  “You can’t do that,” Faith said.

  “I know. Will you come with me?”

  “Yes. In fact, I can call her and set up the meeting, if that works for you?”

  “Okay. Sure. Whatever,” Kat said.

  She took that as high endorsement and was gratified that the girl trusted her with something so important.

  “Consider it done. Eat up.”

  Kat finished her sandwich and settled back in her chair. “When’s the last time you checked the genealogy site?”

  “I haven’t.” When she caught Kat’s quizzical gaze, she sipped her own glass of water. “You aren’t the only one who doesn’t want to deal with adoption.”

  “Maybe that’s why we have each other,” Kat said. “You help me, and I help you.”

  “How’s that?” Faith asked.

  “You have a hit on your page.”

  She set her glass down carefully. “What do you mean I have a hit?”

  “A half sibling.”

  “What?” A week ago she would have discounted the news as suspect, but with the arrival of Macy she knew anything was now possible. “Let’s backtrack. How did you even know I registered for the site?”