by Scott Blade
There was no sign of his nose. It had been beaten in so hard that Widow couldn’t tell it from any of the other destroyed parts that commingled with the dried blood on Hood’s clothes.
Widow had seen a lot of people murdered in his life, some of them simply gunshot wounds or stabbings. He had seen some brutal murders, but he had never seen someone beaten to death quite like this. He had investigated dead bodies before, but he wasn’t an expert. He wasn’t a medical examiner, but he would guess that there had been no weapon used in this murder.
Hood had been beaten to death by hands. He had been killed by someone with big fists.
Widow looked down at his own fists and gasped. He looked at his knuckles. They were big. And they were covered in blood.
CHAPTER 22
THE AIR WAS ARID up on the ridge. Widow returned to the Hoods’ camp and examined it. Their sleeping bags were untouched. The fire had burned out. The tent was still up.
Widow rifled through everything, which didn’t take long because all they had brought with them were the sleeping bags, the tent, and a bag of pretzels, which was rolled down to the bottom.
Widow thought about what he remembered. He remembered everything that had happened up until the part where they shot him with the dart, which they had removed and probably taken with them, because there was no sign of it anywhere. He looked around the camp and saw plenty of evidence of their tracks, but that meant nothing. They were scattered and crisscrossed over each other. He was decent at tracking people through landscapes, but he was no expert. Navy SEALs were good, but they weren’t magical shamans from ancient Native American tribes.
Then he thought about the iPhone he had taken from the dead woman. He jammed his hand into the pocket where he had kept it, and it was gone. He searched his other pockets. Nothing but his passport and his latest foldable toothbrush. The Sig Sauer was gone as well. Even his paperback was gone. His Jeep keys were gone, too, or they were back in the ignition. Maybe the phone was there too. Maybe it was on the seat or in the cup holder although he doubted it. He didn’t think they would leave it behind. Glock wasn’t an idiot.
The good news was that there was no sign of a child’s dead body. Which was what he had feared. They had killed Hood, but not Jemma—not yet, anyway. She was probably still with them.
He had no watch and had no idea of the correct time, but he knew they had come after midnight, and now it was early morning. They had put him to sleep with a dart, carried him down the ridge, down the path, and put him in the Jeep. He knew that because he had long legs, and there would’ve been a trail left behind if they had dragged him. So they carried him. Which meant they’d probably forced Hood to follow, carrying Jemma.
Widow returned back down the path and through the trees and headed toward the parked vehicles. The people who had been there several minutes earlier were gone. They had taken the opportunity to take off, which was fine with Widow but meant he didn’t have a lot of time until they told the sheriff. His hands were the ones covered in blood, and in a small town with a small-town sheriff, that meant he was guilty as sin.
He came to the clearing with the parked Hertz truck and his Jeep and the dead body of James Hood. Just as he had thought, the people had left in their trucks. The dust was still floating in the air from them peeling out and hurrying away.
Widow was wrong about him being the only one left, because perched on the hood of his Jeep was a single brave American black vulture. Widow didn’t know a lot about birds, but he didn’t think vultures liked to be around living people, only dead ones.
He started to approach, and it cocked his head and launched itself into the air and flew off.
Widow rushed over to Hood’s rented truck first and tried the handles, but the doors were locked. He peered in through the window, looked over the seats, into the cup holders, and on the top of the dash. There was nothing in there. No phone. No weapons. Nothing personal.
He dashed over to Hood’s body.
He checked Hood’s pockets, looking for a phone. He found nothing on him, either. His keys were gone. His wallet was gone, if he’d had one. His phone was gone.
Widow knelt down facing him, trying to think of what to do. But one question kept eating at him. Why did they kill Hood, but leave me alive?
Thirty-five seconds later, he got his answer in the form of a big white truck with old, Big Gulp-size light bars on top. They didn’t start sounding or lighting up until he was in sight.
Widow turned and locked eyes with the driver, only the driver didn’t show his eyes. They were hidden behind a pair of reflective aviator sunglasses, the kind he’d seen on small-town cops all over the country.
CHAPTER 23
THE SHERIFF’S TRUCK was only a single bench with no console, apparently. Because there were three bodies in the front seat. The driver was the sheriff, Widow guessed, and the other two were deputies. All three were white guys, unlike the majority of the population, from what Widow had seen.
The truck came skidding to a dramatic stop, kicking up dirt and dust like they had been waiting to make a big action movie entrance.
They stopped twenty feet away from Widow. The two doors shot open, and two bodies emerged from the passenger side. Then the driver came out with a Glock in his hand. He had his arms locked out over the big hood of the truck. His sunglasses were still on, but he had one side cocked down so he could aim straight at Widow.
The driver wore a brown cowboy hat, and Widow imagined there were probably cowboy boots beneath his line of sight that matched the hat.
The deputies took out their guns as well. They might’ve been personal weapons because both were different. One was a black M9 Beretta, which Widow was very familiar with. It was standard issue to many military outfits. The other deputy had a silver 1911, but from this distance, Widow couldn’t tell which manufacturer. The most popular was the Colt version, but that was on the pricey side. Many people settled for the cheaper versions.
The deputies might’ve been full-time or half-time or simply civilian deputies, Widow wasn’t sure. They didn’t wear uniforms, like the sheriff. He wore the cowboy hat and the sunglasses, but everything else was standard sheriff uniform—green button-down shirt with long sleeves and a big, shiny badge, left side of the breast.
The deputies wore all black—black T-shirts with gold stars sewn in and black jeans. Neither wore cowboy boots. They both had regular black leather shoes, cheaply made.
The sheriff screamed in a cop voice, “Hold it!”
Not Freeze! Which was what Widow was expecting since everything else they had done seemed like it was stolen out of a bad movie.
Widow said, “It’s not how it looks.” Which he realized was exactly what the character from a bad movie—the character supposed to be him—would say.
“I said hold it!”
Widow didn’t move. He stayed quiet and still.
“Slow like! I mean slow! Stand up!”
Widow frowned and shrugged at the thought that for the second time in a short period of time, John Glock had gotten him exactly how he wanted him. They didn’t kill him because they didn’t want to bury the bodies and hide the truck and get rid of the trail of evidence that Hood had left behind.
Glock had beaten Hood to death and smeared blood all over Widow’s clothes and knuckles to frame him for the murder. Which may not have held up in the long run, but that probably didn’t matter to Glock.
James Hood was the one who knew too much. He had made a deal with the FBI and probably could’ve given more names. Glock was probably a ghost on paper. That probably wasn’t even his real name. But somewhere there was a guy who was higher up, and he needed to silence Hood. But Widow was a nobody. So for now, he’d do as a patsy. By the time anyone would believe him, Glock would be long gone, and his trail would be colder than arctic ice.
Widow stood up, slowly, like he was told.
“Put your hands out!”
Widow did.
“Open them!”
&nb
sp; Widow did that as well.
“Now turn around! Face away!”
Widow pivoted as he was told and faced away. He closed his eyes and cursed himself because he knew this part all too well. There must’ve been some kind of world record out there regarding who had been handcuffed the most. Widow was certain he’d win the title, hands down. No competition.
Widow felt and heard the deputies approaching him from behind. He heard one of them, the one on his left, holster his gun. He expected to hear the clanging of cuffs, but he was wrong. There were no cuffs. Instead, he felt plastic and heard the clicks and felt the pressure of tightening zip ties.
The other deputy holstered his weapon, and they both put their hands on his forearms and closed their grips, tight. Neither of them could reach all the way around Widow’s wrists.
One of them said, “Damn, boy. You’re a big fella.”
Widow stayed quiet.
The sheriff said, “Chris, get him in the truck.”
Which Widow thought meant they were going to take him right back to the station in town. They didn’t.
They still had the body to deal with and a crime scene to investigate.
The left deputy opened the passenger side door and said, “Sit your ass down! And don’t move! Don’t even breathe funny!”
Widow put one foot up on the step bar and then dumped his butt down in the seat.
“Keep your legs out.”
Widow kept his legs out, and the deputy left the door wide open. He stepped back and stared at Widow. He kept his gun holster unbuckled and his left hand on the butt of the gun as if saying, Give me a reason to shoot you. And he would have too. Widow had no doubt about it.
He figured the guy had been itching to shoot him, itching to shoot someone in the line of duty. A quiet town like this doesn’t get a lot of action.
Widow was actually a little afraid of getting shot by mistake. He almost told the deputy to keep calm, but he didn’t want to agitate him.
The sheriff and the other deputy went over to take a look at Hood’s body. On closer inspection, the deputy puked. He just retched right there, got some on Hood’s shoes.
The sheriff said, “Damn it, Rick! Go back over by the truck!”
Rick said nothing. He just wiped his mouth and returned to where Widow and the other deputy were.
The sheriff spent a long time over by the body. Widow just kept thinking about Jemma. He kept thinking about how he was going to get out of this and save her.
How the hell was he going to track them down?
After several more minutes—or it could’ve been forty because Widow had lost track—the sheriff walked back away from the body and pulled out his cell phone. He called for paramedics or whatever their equivalent was. He said they needed a van to get out here and take away the body.
Then he hung up the phone and put it back into his pocket. He returned to the truck and said, “Rick, can you get over there and take photos? Don’t puke on it.”
They said it, which irritated Widow because he had known Hood—briefly, but he’d known him. And he liked the guy. Hood was flawed, but not a bad person.
Rick said, “Sure.”
“And stay with it. Watch it. Don’t let the buzzards or any other critters get it.”
“Where you going?”
“We gotta take him in.”
“You gonna leave me out here?”
“You’ll be fine.”
“What if he wasn’t alone?”
The sheriff looked at Widow and said, “He was alone. Look at him. He’s probably always alone.”
Widow wasn’t offended, not because he agreed with it, but because he didn’t care what this guy thought. He wasn’t the type to care about what strangers thought about him.
The other deputy said, “Where’s he gonna ride?”
The sheriff said, “Better put him in the back.”
“But he could jump out.”
“Cuff him to the bar,” the sheriff said and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
Widow smiled. He knew he couldn’t get through the day without being fully cuffed.
They left the zip tie on him and cuffed him over one of the ties and cuffed the other end to the rail. He was locked in place.
CHAPTER 24
ROMANTH’S POLICE STATION was carved out of an old residential house. It must’ve been, because it had a porch, green shutters, and clean wood floorboards that squeaked. The rest of the place was painted white. A large wooden sign was hammered into the front yard with the sheriff’s name plastered on it—Sheriff Ron Harks. It wasn’t a name Widow had heard before, but then again, his own name was unusual.
The inside of the station was just like an old Western, only with modern office machines. There were two desks facing the jail, which was one big cell. Widow guessed that the people they rounded up for crimes were supposed to share it. Right now, it was empty.
The sheriff told the other deputy to throw him in the cell. The deputy tried to walk Widow over to the cell, but he didn’t budge.
“Come on! Move!” the deputy said.
Harks said, “What’s the problem! Now you giving us a hard time? I can have him tase you! You going in that cell!”
“Phone call,” Widow said. He couldn’t think of anything else. Nothing was going to get him out of this situation fast enough. He needed some help.
“What?” Harks asked. He was standing behind the desk. He took off his hat and laid it flat on the desktop next to a dirt-covered keyboard that looked like it belonged in a mechanic’s shop instead of a police station.
Widow said, “I want my phone call.”
“Well, you’ll get that when I say so. Now get in that cell.”
Harks plopped himself down in a high-backed office chair. He looked at Widow with disgust on his face. He was playing a power game with Widow. He was trying to show him who was in charge, like a warden does with a new inmate or like his old drill sergeants had done, but like with the drill sergeants, this game wasn’t going to be won by the sheriff.
Widow said, “No! Phone call first!”
Harks stood back up and shoved his finger in Widow’s face and said, “Listen here! You beat that boy to death out there, and you are going into that cell! I don’t care about your rights!”
Widow sighed in defeat and said, “Look, I’ll go in the cell. I won’t give you any problems. If you give me a phone call.”
But Harks wasn’t budging on his power trip, so he said, “I told you you’re getting in that cell. I’ll give you your phone call when I decide to give it to you.”
“When will that be?”
“In this state, I have to provide it to you within twenty-four hours after your arrest.”
Silence fell between them.
Harks said, “You probably noticed that this is a tiny little speck of a town. We ain’t got no prison here. We ain’t got no courthouse. You know what that means?”
Widow stayed quiet.
“That means we ain’t got no judge. Out here, I am it. So tomorrow the state police will send someone from Laredo or San Antonio or wherever, and they will take you far, far away.”
Harks sat back down and tried to pull his seat forward. It didn’t have wheels, which he seemed to forget because then he scooted it forward. He started to click on the keyboard and ignored Widow. Conversation over.
Widow closed his eyes, imagined Jemma all tied up somewhere. She’d be scared. She had probably watched her father get murdered, and she had to be scared. She probably knew she was going to die.
He could still find her. She was probably still alive. Glock had mentioned selling her to a friend who dealt in sex slaves. That might’ve just been a scare tactic, but Widow had been around the world. He’d been undercover in some of the most unbelievable environments many, many times. He knew it had as much chance of being true as it did of being a lie.
She must be alive.
Desperate, Widow paused a breath and said, “If you let me make my call now,
I’ll give a full confession.”
This seemed to interest Harks because his eyebrows arched and he looked up.
“You could be the hero here. Why should those state boys take the credit?”
Harks said, “You’ll confess?”
“Yes.”
“Sign the papers?”
“Yes. Right here.”
Harks said, “Sign it first.”
“After. Phone call first. Then I’ll sign it.”
Harks thought for a moment.
Widow said, “It’ll be a short call.”
“One minute.”
“That’s all I’ll need.”
Harks looked at the other deputy and back at Widow. He said, “You keep the zip tie on.”
Widow smiled and said, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Sheriff Harks stood up again and pulled out his cell phone, which was one of those old ones with only buttons and a black and white screen like a calculator.
Harks walked around the desk and sat on the edge. The other deputy took a strong grip on Widow’s wrist and jerked him into a position so the sheriff could hold the phone up to his ear. Which wasn’t quite legal because these phone calls were considered confidential if he had been calling his lawyer. But he wasn’t calling a lawyer, and he didn’t care how they did it.
“What’s the number? Who we calling?”
“It’s a government number. You’ll have to ask for a woman named Cameron.”
Harks said, “Government?”
Widow nodded and said, “Yeah. My old unit. They’ll send a lawyer.”
“What’re you? Military?”
“Ex.”
Harks didn’t ask any more questions. He just nodded and asked for the number. Widow gave it to him, and he dialed. It was answered by an automated voice, which asked him for an identification code. Widow gave it to him, and he said it out loud and waited.
