Frank nodded toward the body. “There’s some kind of pathology at work here, you know.”
“The way he was put on display,” Cameron agreed, the last word sounding as if he’d tasted something bitter. “Like the killer was proud of himself, showing off. Strung him up like some kind of prized catch.”
Frank looked up at Cameron. “The thrill of the hunt. A textbook case of sociopathic showmanship.”
“Yeah, but something else.”
“What’s that?”
“The weapon.”
“The hooks?”
“It shows he improvised, grabbed whatever was handy,” Cameron said.
“A disorganized kill.”
“Has all the earmarks.”
Frank lowered his gaze at Cameron, then furrowed a brow. “I see where you’re heading, and I don’t like it.”
“I’m not saying we could have the start of serial killer, but I will say one thing—there’s something about this that bothers me, Frank, really bothers me.”
“Well, yeah, judging by the way he was left—”
“More than that, even. It’s the killer’s motivation.”
“Motivation?”
“I’m willing to bet this wasn’t just about murder.”
Frank looked back down at Witherspoon’s body, then up at Cameron. “What else is there?”
Cameron paused for a moment. “I think he was sending out a message … and loving every minute of it.”
Chapter Four
Filbert Train Station
Faith, New Mexico
The old brown pickup sat parked along the tracks near the intersection of Quincy and Baseline Roads. That’s where it was most Friday evenings around this time, and that’s where you could find Jet Stevens—planted right behind the wheel.
He liked to watch the trains go by, had been doing it for as long as anyone could remember. Said it helped him wind down. As for those who knew him, most would have agreed: if he were any more relaxed, he’d probably be fast asleep.
Jet and his family were as firmly rooted in Faith’s historic landscape as the trees that stretched across its dusty plains. His great-grandfather, Samuel Stevens, was one of the original settlers. After the war in 1846, railroad companies began laying tracks across the state, and the cattle industry boomed. Sam Stevens got in on the ground floor and cashed in big, becoming one of New Mexico’s wealthiest cattle barons. The family had owned the Saddleback Ranch ever since, and ever since, the money had been flowing.
But you wouldn’t know that by looking at Jet—he’d been driving the same beat-up Dodge for as long as anyone could remember, still wore the same tattered cowboy hat that looked as if the truck itself had backed over it a few times.
Six feet tall and about 165 pounds, Jet had rough-and-tumble good looks combined with dark skin, dark eyes, and even darker hair. Rumor had it he was part Apache, but nobody dared approach the subject with him; it was dangerous territory, strictly off-limits. Jet’s dad, it seemed, had trouble in the sexual discretion department—he was presently working on his fifth marriage—and his escapades in and around Faith were legendary. It was suspected by some, common knowledge to others, that Jet himself was the product of one of those romps. Many figured it was also the reason he and his father did not get along.
Cameron pulled alongside the truck, got out of his car, then slid up into the passenger seat. Once inside, he stared out through the windshield. Jet didn’t bother looking at Cameron; he was too busy watching the tracks, his only visible movement a toothpick shifting from side to side in his mouth.
The sound of clanking glass finally broke the silence as Jet reached into his cooler and produced two frosty bottles of beer. Gazing off into the distance, he dangled them in the air, toothpick still sliding back and forth.
Cameron grabbed one. He screwed his face into a tight grimace, struggling to keep the bottle from slipping in one hand, while twisting off the top with the other. Once removed, he held the cap up, turning it around, studying it, and said, “Figured you’d be here.”
Jet was still watching the tracks. He reached for the toothpick, gave it a few turns, then extracted the mangled end from between his lips and replied, “If my name is Jet and it’s Friday night—then you know I’m here.”
Cameron acknowledged the comment with the slightest grin, then looked down at his bottle and started peeling the label.
Jet said, “Keepin’ busy these days, I see.”
“Busy ...” Cameron replied, shaking his head, staring at the floorboard. “Busy doesn’t begin to describe what I am. Crazy—now that’s more like it.”
Jet brought the bottle to his mouth, but instead of taking a sip, produced a combination nod and shrug, as if confirming his own thought. “Got a murdered deputy … people runnin’ around, lookin’ as nervous as bastards at a family reunion. That’ll make you crazy.”
“So to speak,” Cameron said.
“Weird, though, huh?”
“What’s that?”
“The whole thing … what happened.”
“Weirder than weird,” Cameron said, watching a car drive past. The reflected sunlight cast an orange glow across his face. “And right there on your ranch.”
Jet was mid-gulp when he stopped, squeezed his eyes tight, then shook his head, looking as if he’d just swallowed vinegar. “Mmm. Not my ranch—my daddy’s ranch. Ain’t mine.”
Cameron studied Jet for a few seconds, thinking before speaking. “Didn’t happen to see anything that night there, did you?”
“Anything, like what?”
“You know, anything unusual … out of the ordinary. See anyone walking around? Anyone who shouldn’t’ve been there?”
Jet looked at Cameron briefly, then out his side window, slowly shaking his head. “Naw. Ain’t nobody goes up that road, ‘cept for the deputies. No need to. Doesn’t go nowhere. Everybody knows that.”
A train finally rolled past, just a few freight cars and a flatbed heading out of town. Jet watched with mild interest, following them until they moved out of sight, then tossed his empty bottle into the back seat where it clanked against a number of others.
“Well, somebody found reason to be there that night,” Cameron said, “and that reason was to kill Witherspoon.”
“Uh-huh. That’s for damn sure … figure someone had a score to settle … wanted to even things up.”
Cameron was about to take a sip but stopped, eying Jet with interest. “Why you say that?”
“Nothin’ special,” Jet said, attempting a casual shrug. “Just guessing, is all.”
Cameron relaxed slightly: Jet didn’t have any concrete information. He put his bottle in the cup holder, spinning it around a few times, staring at it. “Jet, I know you said you didn’t actually see anyone hanging around there that night, but did you see anything … anything at all?”
“Anything at all …” Jet said, repeating Cameron’s words as if it would somehow give them more meaning.
“Maybe see something unusual later on that seemed out of place, like it didn’t fit … didn’t belong? Something like that?”
“Naw, not really.”
“Not really, or not at all? Think hard, Jet. It’s important.”
Jet was now moving his eyes back and forth along the dashboard as if following a thought, then stopped like he’d found it. He looked at Cameron. “Well, there was … but naw. That wouldn’t be nothin’.”
“What? Tell me. What is it?”
Jet pushed the brim of his hat back an inch or two, scratched the part of his head now exposed, deliberating on a thought before speaking. “Found something on the ground later that day. Figured one of the deputies tossed it. But now that you mention it …”
“What was it?” Cameron asked.
“Slip of paper.”
“What was on it?” Getting information here was like pulling teeth.
“Your department’s name … and a phone number.”
“Do you have it?” asked Came
ron, anxiety in his voice despite his best efforts to conceal it. “Did you keep it?”
Jet thought for a moment. “No, but I think I know where it might be.”
“Where?”
Jet gave Cameron a lingering look, his mouth pulled tighter on one side. Opening his door, he shoved a leg through, then stepped out of the truck. As he walked toward the back, Cameron jumped out on his side as well, following quickly.
Both stared into the bed. There were more empty bottles, some ropes, an old saddle.
But no note.
Still gazing into the bed, Jet shrugged, cupped his palm over the crown of his hat, tilting it back some. “I threw it back here. Guess it blew out.”
Cameron folded his arms and rested them on the bed railing, releasing a long sigh. “Do you remember the numbers, Jet, any of them?”
Jet looked at the ground, kicked some dirt. “The first three numbers were, five-seven-one … don’t remember the rest.”
“Five-seven-one,” Cameron repeated, knowing it meant very little. There were only two exchanges in Faith, that, and five-six-two. Without the rest, connecting them to something significant would be next to impossible. “And you’re sure you don’t remember the others?”
“Naw,” Jet replied, then threw his hands up, “Wish I did.”
Me, too, Jet, Cameron thought. Me, too.
Chapter Five
7543 Sunshine Way
Faith, New Mexico
Cameron checked with each of the deputies on the scene after Witherspoon’s murder. None of them knew anything about a slip of department stationary bearing those numbers; that meant it could very well have belonged to Witherspoon, maybe even have fallen from his pocket while he was murdered.
A potentially valuable piece of evidence, lost. Just the thought of it made Cameron’s gut tighten into a fist-sized knot.
Whether or not the paper was relevant to the crime was anyone’s guess, since finding it would be next to impossible, and a number with the five-seven-one exchange would only narrow things down to about half the town.
Turning his focus toward new evidence, Cameron thought about his next step, probably the hardest one of all: to speak to Witherspoon’s wife.
Bradley’s house was a modest-looking ranch-style home located only a mile or so from the sheriff’s station.
Cameron arrived just as another visitor was leaving. Witherspoon’s wife, Shelby, stood in the darkened doorway, saying goodbye to another woman; she looked over her guest’s shoulder and caught Cameron’s gaze. The other woman swung around, saw him, then turned back and continued talking. They embraced, then the guest turned to leave, and she passed Cameron as she headed toward her car.
Shelby’s eyes were rimmed in red, her nose a deep shade of pink. Cameron reached for her hands, gave her a somber, sympathetic smile, then instinctively wrapped his arms around her. She hugged him back, and he could hear her soft sobs against his shoulder. He continued holding onto her for a long time, as if doing so could somehow help drain away her sorrow.
Finally, she pulled away. Grief-stricken eyes peered directly into his.
Cameron shook his head, fighting back his own tears. “I don’t know what to say, Shelby, I just …”
“I know …” she said, looking down at her feet, nodding, her voice shallow and weak. “… I know.”
A few moments of awkward silence stretched between them. Then, softly, Shelby said, “Why don’t you come inside?”
Cameron nodded and followed her through the doorway.
The dining room table was awash in a sea of baskets, cellophane wrapping paper, bows, and flowers: all tokens of sympathy, of love, for the wife of a slain deputy. Shelby moved past them all as if they didn’t even exist, then went into the kitchen. She reached for the refrigerator handle, opened the door, and stared inside for a long time, her back to Cameron, almost as if she’d forgotten why she’d gone there in the first place. Finally, she let out a deep, helpless sigh, her shoulders falling an inch or two. “Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”
Cameron stood in the doorway watching her. Having something to drink was the last thing on his mind. “No. Thank you.”
She turned around to face him and shook her head. “I don’t know what I’m doing. My mind … it’s just—”
“Sit down, Shelby,” Cameron said softly, “You don’t have to do anything.”
Shelby closed her eyes and nodded. She walked slowly past him into the living room, sat down tentatively on the couch, dropped her face in her hands, and began crying.
Cameron took a seat beside her, placed a hand on her shoulder, and kept it there, silently.
When Shelby finally lifted her head, Cameron reached for a box of tissues—nearly empty—on the end table and handed it to her. She took one, wiped her nose.
A long, labored silence filled the air again. Cameron glanced around the room as if searching for words. “So where are the boys?”
“My mother took them to her place for the afternoon. Guess she figured I needed a break …” she said, her voice trailing off, “… although the quiet seems worse.”
Cameron shifted his weight nervously. “I have to do this, Shelby. I don’t want to—you know I don’t—and I’d do anything not to have to put you through this right now, but—”
“I know,” she said, her voice changing, becoming steadier now. Shelby had been a cop’s wife long enough to realize what was coming next.
“I’ll try to make this as quick as possible,” Cameron assured.
“I know it’s hard for you, too—all this—I know it is. Brad thought the world of you.”
“Thought the world of him, too,” Cameron said, looking down at his hands, nodding, remembering. “I really did.”
“I want to help you find whoever killed …” She stopped, closed her eyes. “…whoever did this to him.”
“I need to know if you saw or heard something—anything—suspicious in the last few days.”
She looked away and stared absently across the room, shaking her head slowly. “No. There was nothing.”
“Are you positive?”
“I would have known if something was wrong.” Shelby turned back toward Cameron. She shrugged. “There just wasn’t.”
“What about someone else? Anyone you can think of who’d have reason to want to hurt him? Hurt you?”
“You knew Brad. He didn’t have a single enemy. Not one.”
It was true. Bradley was probably the best-liked deputy at the station. Cameron couldn’t think of anyone who’d want to do him harm. He thought some more, then spoke. “There was a slip of paper found at the scene later with department letterhead and a phone number written on it.”
She tilted her head. “Let me see it.”
“I can’t. It got tossed. Accidentally. I don’t even know if it was Brad’s or not. All I have to go on are the first three digits of a telephone number.”
Shelby just stared at him, vacantly.
Cameron knew what she was going through—really knew—and yet he felt helpless. His own sadness and loss seemed to be coming to the surface once more, as though the grief had been waiting for just that moment to own him. “What can I do for you right now, Shelby, how can I help?”
“Find him, Cameron,” she said, her voice becoming firm and harsh, her expression unforgiving. A single tear rolled down her cheek. “Find whoever took him from me.”
Cameron nodded. It was all he could do.
“Find the bastard, then make him pay. Make sure he never sees the light of day again. Never.”
Chapter Six
Eisenhower Middle School
Faith, New Mexico
Thirteen-year-old Ryan Churchill sat behind his computer, pounding the keyboard as he worked on his research paper. Alma Gutierrez smiled, pleased to see him looking so inspired, so motivated. She’d been tutoring him for several months, and he’d improved in ways even he never imagined he could.
Ryan had started out as a below-average s
tudent, barely making Cs and Ds. Now, however, he’d been bringing home As and Bs, thanks to Alma’s help and careful guidance.
A quiet kid, and a bit on the awkward side, he had a plump, round body, flushed, full cheeks, and a smile that could light up a room … when his shyness permitted. Before Alma, Ryan had been an underachiever, and no one could figure out why. Certainly, it wasn’t for a lack of intelligence, as all his test scores showed otherwise.
That was why they’d sent him to see Alma. She soon discovered why he’d been doing so poorly in school: Ryan Churchill was dyslexic. He saw the world differently than everyone else did, a mirror image of itself, everything backward. All these years he’d suffered a limiting disability that kept him from reaching his potential.
But not anymore. Alma worked with Ryan, teaching him how to overcome his problem, and he’d been improving rapidly ever since.
Alma enjoyed the work. There was sweetness about the boy that made it hard not to like him. While it took some time to gain Ryan’s trust, once they’d forged a relationship, he began to excel.
It seemed once the dyslexia was discovered and addressed, there was no stopping Ryan. As it turned out, not only was he bright, he actually belonged in the gifted category. Finding that out, and realizing he had a diagnosable disability, that he was not stupid or lazy as people had often told him, made all the difference in the world to the boy. Before long, Ryan began to feel like he had value and purpose in life. Most of all, he was grateful to Alma for freeing him from the stronghold the disorder had placed on him.
Ryan started picking up his typing speed, and Alma looked up from her work and smiled. “You’re doing so well, Ryan. I’m very pleased.”
Ryan flashed his bashful smile, the one Alma had become used to seeing, the one that would win her over every time.
She often wondered how the boy did around the other children. Kids like Ryan in general faced one of two reactions: they either went unnoticed, or suffered the opposite effect, becoming the target of ridicule and cruel jokes. It would break Alma’s heart if she found out he’d suffered the latter. She’d never broached the subject with him, though she thought perhaps someday she might.
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