Sinister

by Nancy Bush

  Kit’s mother.

  His blood had run cold when Mrs. Mac had told him. “Where’s Kit?” he’d asked.

  “Safe and sound with Ricki. But you should know there’s a killer out there, and he seems to be a firebug, too. Burned down the Pioneer Church. Pilar’s going to have a cow when she finds out. Not about the dead women, mind you, but the wedding.”

  Davis knew that wedding was a thorn in Ira’s side. If he were the old man, he’d elope and call it a day.

  Now Davis gave a shout to move the horses along, but they knew the routine. Even in the snow, he turned them out each morning. The open space and sunshine served them better than a day in the dry, shadowed stables. He patted Pepper’s neck and gave the appaloosa some loving. When he turned back, he saw the Jeep with the roof-rack of lights approaching. His brother Sam.

  Although his brother was the sheriff, Davis wasn’t a fan of the law. The law didn’t feed hungry families or care for children when their parents beat them down. Sometimes he thought Sam had forgotten where they came from when he’d married that rich girl. For a while, that big house and baby girl had lifted him up, separated him from their past. Even though Sam’s wife had hightailed it back to Denver, taking the daughter along, some of the entitlement had stuck. And the law and order halo remained.

  Sam wore a black bomber jacket with his shiny gold star pinned to the chest. Did he remember the day a man in the same uniform had come to take their mother away?

  Sam’s face was wan, tired. “You hear about last night?”

  “Two murders and a fire.” Davis tramped through the snow, toward the gate. “You had a busy night. How’s Kit handling it?”

  “In shock, I think. She’s staying at the ranch until we find this guy.”

  “You sure? She doesn’t like confinement.”

  “Ricki took her home,” Sam said, and Davis let it go.

  “What makes you think it’s a guy?”

  “Just playing the percentages. Besides, the killer has this way of carving up the victims.”

  “Carving them up.” Davis spoke slowly. He didn’t want to hear this. “Like … how?”

  “He’s got knife skills. He sliced off the skin of their arms and legs and left the muscle and bone, like a hunter saving a skin.”

  A hunter … or a huntress.

  Davis swallowed hard, but he couldn’t clear the salty taste on his tongue. He couldn’t dismiss the image of Kit swaying around that coyote near Copper Woods, dancing in the snow, bowing to it and lifting her arms to the sky in some ancient ritual.

  He turned away to latch the gate. Yesterday, he had worried that she’d gone over the edge, killing the coyote and skinning it, cutting out a tooth as Sabrina had mentioned. But now … two women were dead, carved up in the same way. He slammed the steel gate. This wasn’t Kit. It wasn’t. Couldn’t be. That wasn’t how she was made. But the facts were there. As their grandmother used to say, you can bury the truth, but it will always be waiting there, under the dirt.

  And Kit didn’t get along with Mia at all.

  “Word’s traveling fast.” Sam took his hat off. “By this afternoon, half the town’s going to be loaded for bear, and we don’t even have a suspect in sight.”

  Head down, Davis kicked a snowdrift off the path, not wanting his brother to see the emotions warring inside him. How he wanted to protect her. How he wished he could dance with her. And yet, there was the vein of fear, the possibility that her skillful hands had carved off those layers of skin. “Why did you come here?”

  “The first victim was found in the Pioneer Church, just down the road. I was wondering if you’ve taken on any new hands lately. Anyone passing through?”

  “Someone you can pin the blame on?”

  “Easy, brother.”

  “Ira Dillinger doesn’t take kindly to people who are passing through. The work here goes to local guys.” And Kit. Kit got first priority.

  “Got some names for me?”

  “Don’t push it.”

  “Then take a minute. Get the bug out of your ass and tell me who’s been working here in the past month. Unless you want me to subpoena the Rocking D’s records. Ira will be thrilled.”

  “I don’t hire killers,” he snapped.

  “He’s out here, Davis, and I’m casting a net to find him. This is how it works.”

  This was always how it worked, with Davis resisting and Sam doubling the pressure. “Fine.” Davis gave him names: Lou McCoy and Mick Ramhorn were on the payroll. Stub Everly and Catfish Griffin worked by the hour.

  But he conveniently left Kit out. No one would suspect her, anyway.

  No one but him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The next morning, Ricki woke up with an ache in her shoulder and a feeling of dread. Kit hadn’t returned and she really didn’t know what to do about it. She stood in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and rolled her tender shoulder as her mind slid to a gruesome image of a raw shoulder stripped of skin, its musculature and bone on display like a med school cadaver.

  Mia.

  Amber Barstow had been cut in the same way.

  Last night, on the verge of sleep, Ricki had worried that the killer might have done his handiwork before cutting his victims’ throats. What if he had drugged them or bound them in place so that they felt every cut … every raw nerve flaring with pain?

  She didn’t want to believe any human being on this planet could be so cruel, so heinous. At least the medical examiner would have some information on the cause of death and the timing of the wounds.

  But where was Kit? The girl had been on her own so long, she probably didn’t even think about others, and now with Mia gone, her last tether to people may have been severed. Ricki’s gut was churning with worry.

  Just as she was about to call Sam, her cell phone blooped. Snatching it up, she saw the message was from Davis: Kit is here at stables.

  Ricki nearly collapsed with relief. Good. She recalled that one of the mares was close to foaling and it made sense that Kit would be there rather than here.

  Ruffling the curls on her forehead, she yawned. Another few hours of sleep would be nice, but she knew it would be impossible with the investigation just starting. Part of her couldn’t wait to tell Brooklyn that she had a job now, but the other part could only imagine the barbs that would come from her daughter once she learned there was a killer at large. I thought we moved here for a better quality of life, not a hack-job from some psycho. Thanks, Mom. Yeah, Ricki could wait for that conversation.

  And apparently, Brooklyn could wait, too. When Ricki poked her head in, her daughter was curled up in bed and breathing slowly. It was just after eight, and Brook rarely made it out of bed before noon on Sundays.

  She called Davis’s cell and he answered on the first ring. “Yeah, she’s here. Won’t leave Babylon’s side. I told her to go, but she won’t.”

  “You heard what happened to Mia.”

  “Yeah.” He was sober.

  “Davis, I hate to do this to you, but can you make sure she sticks around? She might be … vulnerable.” She didn’t want to come out and say that the killer might have her in his sights, too, but Davis seemed to get the message.

  While she was on the phone with Davis, Sam rang in, and she signed off and took his call. “Morning, Sheriff.”

  “Did you get some sleep?”

  It seemed like such an intimate question, and she had to brace herself to answer in a level voice. “A few hours.”

  “Good, because you’ve got a full day ahead. I’d like you to coordinate a search of the Rocking D, since you know the lay of the land. I mean, if you’re still on board.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Got some volunteers here and loaners from nearby jurisdictions. I’m sending one group out with Gary to search the Kincaid ranch, especially near the church. I’ll send a group out your way to help, but I don’t know the best way to cover the land there.”

  “In this snow, we’re better on horseback.
I can have Davis supply us with horses. If you got a few who don’t ride, I can have them cover the access roads, as long as they have a four-by-four,” she suggested.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  They discussed a few other details, and to her surprise, Sam brought up Brooklyn. “Speaking more as a parent than a sheriff … I don’t know what you’ve got planned, but I don’t like the idea of your daughter out there alone while you’re gone all day. After all, we had a strike right near you. Can she spend the day with a friend or something?”

  “Good idea.” Here she was, ready to lam out of here, leaving her daughter alone in a fairly isolated cabin. “I’ll take her up to the main lodge. Pilar will be around with Rourke, and Mrs. Mac will be there all day.” Maybe Brook could help Pilar rearrange the wedding plans.

  After they ended the call, she went into triage mode. She called Davis again, about the horses this time, woke up Brook and jumped in the shower. Half an hour later, she left a sullen but quiet Brook sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter, watching as Mrs. Mac beat together butter and eggs.

  “Cookies.” The older woman pointed to the drawer by the ovens. “And you can help me decorate them. There’s an apron right there.”

  “Isn’t that great, honey?” Ricki plunked the apron over her daughter’s head and patted her shoulder. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Brooklyn rolled her eyes but didn’t dare complain in front of Mrs. Mac. Good. This might force Brook to spend some time with her family, get to know them at least a little.

  Out in the corral, Sabrina was walking one of the quarter horses around. A boy was standing by. “T-Rex is a very gentle horse,” Sabrina was saying. “He’s got a great temperament.”

  “When do I get to ride?” the boy asked. On closer inspection, Ricki realized it was Rourke.

  “As soon as Colton gets the okay from your mom.”

  “She’ll never say yes,” he muttered gloomily.

  “Your dad’s pretty persuasive,” Sabrina assured him.

  Inside the stables, Colton was helping Davis and one of the hands saddle up horses. Davis put a blanket over a quarter horse and nodded at Ricki. “How many horses will you need for your search party?”

  “I’m thinking six altogether. I’ll ride Rio. The other volunteers will go out in a truck.”

  “Hardly a search party.” Colt lifted a saddle onto the horse. “We’re going to join in. Sabrina and Davis and me. You need us, and I don’t mind beating the bushes for this monster. If he’s here on Dillinger land, I say let’s track him down.”

  “After you talk to Pilar about Rourke riding?” Ricki suggested.

  “How’d you know about that?” Colton asked.

  “Sabrina.” She inclined her head to where Sabrina was having Rourke lead the horse.

  “He’s eager to get to it, but today’s not the day,” Colton said.

  “And Pilar’s going to go with that?”

  “He’s a Dillinger. He’s going to ride,” Colt said in a tone that allowed no argument.

  Kit emerged from a stable leading a white and gold Arabian. “I’m going, too.” She looked Ricki in the eye.

  “That’s not such a good idea.” Ricki shifted from one foot to the other. “Protocol doesn’t allow family members to be working on a case they have ties with.”

  “It’s just a search party.” Colton straightened and tipped back his hat. “Not a jury.”

  “Colt is right,” Davis said. “The lay of the land changes all the time, and nobody knows those plains better than Kit.”

  Ricki held her tongue with an effort. In New York, a young woman would not be allowed to help search for her mother’s killer. But then, she wasn’t in New York anymore, was she? “All right then. What can I do to help you get these horses ready?”

  Half an hour later, Rourke was back at the house, and two search parties of six set out. Ricki and Davis led one, and Catfish Griffin, a ranch hand, acted as guide for the police volunteers. They would use the ranch walkie-talkies for communication.

  Ricki now realized that Sabrina was here not as the ranch vet but as Colton’s girlfriend—a recent development that her brother seemed pretty happy about. As they headed out, both parties following the farm road that had been cleared of deep snow a day ago, Colt’s dog followed along behind them, stopping now and again to mark the edge of the road and frolic in the powder.

  Sabrina pointed out, “Montana is coming with us.”

  Colton twisted to look back at the trotting dog. “Yeah, he does that sometimes.”

  “The dog doesn’t know the ranch,” Ricki pointed out, “and the snowdrifts are deep.”

  “Yeah.” Colt shrugged. “We’re going to have to keep an eye on him, because I can make him follow, but I don’t have a command to make him go back.”

  “Sounds like that dog has you pretty well trained,” Davis said dryly, and despite the somber tone of the morning, everyone chuckled.

  Even Kit smiled.

  The snow had stopped sometime during the night, and though everything was blanketed in white, most of the trails were still apparent. Ricki looked out over the white sweeping hills and plains and wondered if he was out there, lingering. She didn’t think so, but you never knew. You just never knew.

  The charred ruins of the old Pioneer Church reeked of smoke. Every few minutes wind stirred up dry snowflakes mixed with ash from last night’s fire and sent the icy cinders around behind the short standing wall to pummel Hunter Kincaid in the face.

  “Are you done yet?” Casey Rawlings, a volunteer firefighter, called from the parking lot, where he was keeping a lookout.

  “Almost.” Hunter removed a spray bottle from his satchel and adjusted the nozzle to produce a steady stream. He turned on the video feature of his phone, then pointed the spray bottle at the seal at the top of the church’s propane tank and squeezed.

  Thick dishwasher soap squirted out with a splat. He kept spraying, surrounding the valve and saturating the seal with the soapy mixture he’d brought from home. Hunter knew the fire inspector who’d been here earlier in the day had fancy chemicals and test kits, but for this test, dishwasher liquid was just as effective. If propane was leaking out anywhere around the seal, the gas would make the solution bubble up.

  The bigger the gas bubble, the greater the leak. Another thing he’d learned in the two years he’d spent training in Jackson’s fire and rescue. Two years wasted, as far as Lieutenant Whit Crowley and his hooligans were concerned. They considered the local fire department to be their private men’s club, a place for beer and poker funded by the county. Anyone who got in the way of tradition was not welcome, to the tune of threats and maliciousness that bordered on criminal behavior. They felt Hunter was a traitor in their midst. He’d heard the jibes—comments about him being a reformed firebug, based on the mistaken belief that he’d had anything to do with the Dillinger fire—but he ignored all of them.

  “Almost done?” Casey called. “I’d hate for Lieutenant Crowley to find out we brought a truck all the way out here.”

  “Fuck him,” Hunter said under his breath, then shouted back: “There’s no leak.” Not even a small bubble.

  Imagine that. Crowley and his men had been wrong again. In their investigation this morning, they’d cited the propane tank as having a leak. That meant a fine for the church, as well as the expense of repairs. Refitting the tank or replacing it completely. And to get the work done, a person usually called the only plumbing and heating specialist in town—none other than Whit Crowley.

  It was a nice little give-and-take.

  He turned off the video, packed up his stuff and tramped round the side of the building over well-trodden snow.

  Casey paced beside the truck with all the energy of a nervous nineteen-year-old. “What do you mean, there’s no leak? Do you think Crowley and the guys fixed it?”

  “Not unless the church forked over a grand this morning. It’s just like the other propane tanks at every fire we’ve
worked in the last year or so. Crowley claims a propane leak, writes up a violation, then gets paid the big bucks to fix it.”

  Casey punched gloved fists together. “That’s gotta be against the law.”

  “No one’s been the wiser, that is till you helped clean up at the Olsen fire.” He put his bags into the back of the truck and clapped Casey on the back. “You prepared to be a whistleblower?”

  “Are we going to lose our jobs?”

  Hunter wasn’t so sure. He didn’t think the fire chief, Jack Raintree, was in on the scam, but he may have been turning a blind eye to it. At the very least, a lot of folks in Prairie Creek were on friendly terms with Whit Crowley. “Don’t worry about it just yet,” Hunter said. “We can’t come out with any of the evidence until we have more of a case. I should have started collecting evidence on those home fires when they happened, but who knew?”

  “A thief among us,” Casey said dramatically. “I can’t wait to lock him up and throw away the key.”

  “That would be satisfying.” Crowley behind bars, where Hunter himself had almost landed, more than once.

  The two men got into the truck, and Hunter started it up.

  Casey said, “This time, they’re saying it’s arson.”

  “’Fraid so. I found multiple points of origin, and gasoline markings and residue. Whoever set that fire was hoping for some major damage. That makes it different from the other house fires we’ve had. This firebug went whole hog.”

  “So it wasn’t Crowley’s men?”

  “I don’t think so, since it doesn’t fit their pattern. We’ll see. But you can bet Crowley will be approaching the church about replacing their propane tank for them.”

  “Do you think the lieutenant knows we’re on to him?” Casey asked.

  All these questions … he hoped Casey would use some discretion. “Nah. He can’t see past the dollars he’s shoving into his wallet.”

  “I don’t want to get kicked out.”

  “They can’t fire you. You’re a volunteer.”