“Nope.”
“Damn,” Tag muttered.
Fischer’s silence was strange. Tag had checked on him twice since Doc Mayers had released him. Both times Fischer’s demeanor had been cool and collected. His mocking grin ground on Tag like a fork on china.
“Where’s Deputy Carson?”
Doreen brightened. “She’s over at the Tin Star giving blood. It’s time for the high school’s annual drive.”
Tag shook his head even as he stared at the iron door again. “What drive?”
“The high school’s blood drive. You know. A high school where students go to learn?”
“I know what a school is,” he said. What in the hell is Fischer up to? Why isn’t he calling an attorney?
She rose and waved a hand in front of his face. “Hello?”
Tag looked down at her. “What?” he snapped.
Doreen sighed like an emo teenager. “You asked a question, Sheriff. It’s only polite to listen to the answer. I have half a mind to call your mama. If I knew her name or number, that is. You’re awfully closed-mouthed, Sheriff. You know that?”
Tag forced a grin and shoved back the instant dart of decades-old pain. “You call my mother and you’ll be looking for a new job.”
Doreen tossed her hair. “I ain’t scared of you.”
“Now that’s a fool remark,” he said. “You know what kind of reputation I have.”
She grinned and blew a bubble with her gum. “Yeah, except I also know it’s mostly a bunch of crap.”
Tag leaned down. “The key word there is mostly.” He straightened up. “Tell me about the blood drive.”
“The high school students have challenged their teachers to see who can raise the most blood donations. Someone goes in to donate and they say which side they’re giving for. The winning side will get the silver bronc statue that used to be outside Brand Withers’s car dealership.”
He snorted. “That’s a dubious reward.”
She tossed her short blonde hair and glowered. “It’s about helping people, Tag. Maljib graciously offered the parking lot of the restaurant to the blood people for their bus. Anyone who donates gets ten percent off their meal, too. You gonna go?”
He resisted the urge to cover his veins. “Uh, I’ll see. Maybe.”
Doreen narrowed her blue-eyed gaze on him. A wicked smile lifted her lips. “You’re scared of needles,” she said. Her grin grew wide as the mighty Brazos River. “I’ll be damned.”
Tag glared down at her. “I’m not scared of needles, Doreen. I have an aversion to vampires. There’s a difference.” He unbuckled his belt. “I’m going to put this in my office then head back to check on Fischer.”
Doreen sat back down and looked at her desk. Without warning her nose reddened and tears swam in her eyes.
Tag’s gut tightened. “What’s wrong?”
“We got a few applications for Deputy Wallace’s position.” Her voice wavered on the words and she gulped then coughed.
Tag figured she must have swallowed her gum because her jaws stopped clacking like an out-of-control locomotive.
“What should I do with them?”
Nausea filled him and he glared once more at the door separating him from the cold-blooded man who’d killed his deputy. Tag looked down at her. “Put them on my desk,” he said softly. “I’ll go through them.”
She nodded and the wan emotions cleared from her face. “Thanks, boss.” She sniffled loudly.
He snatched a box of tissues off the corner of her desk and thrust them at her.
Crying women made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t much for placating with bullshit sentiments. He didn’t have the kind of smooth tongue other men did.
He stalked into his office and carefully hung his belt on the maple coatrack. He set his hat on top of it and moved to his desk. Yellow and pink sticky notes littered the surface. They were reminders from Doreen of the various things he needed to do today.
Fill out incident report re: Fischer arrest.
Sign off on supply requisition—we’re almost out of toilet paper.
Go to blood drive & give!
He shuddered again and crumpled that one in his palm. He’d do it, but he damned sure wouldn’t like it.
Tag sat down in his chair and turned around to face the large map of Texas hanging on his wall above gray file cabinets. He focused on the star denoting Austin as state capital. He drew in a deep breath, sucking air through his nose and as far into his belly as he could. The star wavered as his eyelids went half-mast.
He exhaled in an equally long and controlled burst.
Positive in, negative out.
He repeated the breathing exercise four more times before he figured he was calm enough to see Fischer again.
He rose and headed for the cells.
The iron door opened silently and easily. He saw Fischer lying on his back with one arm draped over his eye. One bootie-covered foot kept rhythm to an inaudible beat.
Tag wished he had his nightstick to bang on the bars and scare the shit out of the little asshole.
“Fischer,” he barked.
The prisoner slowly lifted his arm and eyed him with disdain. “What?”
Tag gritted his teeth. “You gonna call anyone or what?”
“Or what what?”
Tag took a step forward and curled his hands around the cold metal bars. “While I don’t care if you rot in my jail, you need to call someone.”
Fischer grinned at him. He was missing two front teeth. Tag wished he’d been the one to knock them out, but the man had done it when he’d gone face down on Jake’s glass-and-wood coffee table. Fischer’s face still bore a few nicks and cuts from the fall.
“How’s the shoulder?” Tag asked.
Fischer’s smile dipped. “Where’s the fed? I’m tired of this Podunk burg and uncomfortable mattress.”
“I get you first,” Tag said. “You killed my deputy.”
Fischer lost a bit more of his composure. He slowly sat up and swung his feet to the ground. His hands hung loosely between his legs. He took a couple of deep breaths then looked up with a radiant smile. “They won’t let you keep me, Cain. Federal trumps local every time. Damn, that must chap your hide, huh? Bet you’d love to come in here and beat the crap out of me.” Fischer rose and shuffled a few feet forward but stayed just out of reach.
Tag’s anger burned white hot and he had to grip the bars tighter to prevent himself from trying to snag the little bastard.
“You’re not worth my time, Fischer,” he said.
The man winked. “Yeah, I can see it. You want nothing more than to leave me on the floor in a bloody pulp.”
Tag knew he should leave. He should turn around and walk away from the maggot right now. But anger fueled by pride kept him glued to the bars. “You look good in beat-to-hell black and blue,” he said.
Fischer took another half-step forward. Tag calculated the distance. Another two shuffles and he’d be able to grab hold of him. Anticipation zinged through him. Fischer already had more than one bump and bruise. What would a few more hurt? Who would know?
A low whirring echoed in the silence and he cursed as he looked over his shoulder and up at the unblinking eye of the surveillance camera.
Fuck.
When he looked at Fischer again he’d moved into easy reach.
Tag’s entire body flushed with the need to lunge. He forced himself to absolute stillness.
“That deputy of yours never knew what hit him. Pop. Pop. Pop. Three bullets to the head,” Fischer cooed. “Dead. Just like that.”
A blood red haze covered Tag’s eyes and he roared in fury as his hands left the cold metal bars.
* * * *
He waited until Deputy Carson locked the sheriff’s office and drove off to make her rounds before getting out of his car. He stayed to the shadows and approached the darkened building with care. It took only a few seconds to unlock the door and slip inside. The five desks in the room were empty, as
was the office in the back.
He strode down the aisle and veered left into the break room. A single under-counter light afforded some illumination. He went straight for the door next to the refrigerator and reached for the metal handle.
The knob slipped beneath his gloved fingers and he cursed softly before gripping it tighter and giving it a vicious twist. The door obediently opened.
He stared into the inky darkness and pulled out his penlight then swept the area with the small beam.
“There you are,” he murmured. He stepped into the closet and flipped up the metal lid of the breaker box. Every fuse was identified by neat and precise handwriting. He flipped off the one marked “cameras.” He smiled at the extra s on the word. The office only had one camera and it was in the jail cell.
He left the lid up and eased out of the utility closet then from the break room and along the wall leading to the cells. The iron door opened with quiet ease. The lights were dimmed back here, but not entirely out. He spotted Fischer.
He was in the second cell, lying on his back with one arm draped over his thin face. One foot twitched back and forth. He wore a standard issue orange jumpsuit and blue booties.
He looked ridiculous.
A burst of warmth spread through him at the sight. Fischer had always been an arrogant little prick. Taking him down was going to be a real pleasure.
He glided to the bars and waited.
The foot stopped twitching and Fischer’s arm dropped. He slowly turned his head. A sneer lifted his thin mouth.
“What are you doing here?”
He tamped the automatic desire to grab the little ass wipe and choke the life out of him. “You’d think you’d be more grateful.”
“For what? I need out of this shithole. I got stuff to take care of.”
He nodded. “Yeah? Like what?”
Fischer sat up and moved forward. That superior look on his face irked him. The expression was as irritating as the man himself.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
He sighed and breathed deeply through his nose. This time the trick didn’t do squat to help allay his irritation. He reached into his pocket then inserted a key to the lock.
Fischer stepped back. “About damn time.”
He stepped into the cell and shut it behind him. The clang of metal on metal was sharp in the silence. Fischer’s eyes narrowed.
“What are you doing? We need to leave.”
“Well, now…that is going to be a problem…for you.”
Fischer’s Adam’s apple bobbed wildly and a real hint of fear crossed his face. “What are you talking about?”
He pulled out his .38 Special and smiled coldly. “I never liked you, Fischer.”
“You can’t do this.” The little man’s voice quavered as real fear crossed his face.
He laughed hard and rough. “Even in Afghanistan, I thought you were an overinflated asshole. Puffed up with your own sense of importance.”
Fischer looked wildly around the room, but there was no one to help.
“This is insane. I’m a very valuable man.”
He paused and tilted his head and considered the statement. “You’ve had your uses, I’ll give you that.”
“Exactly,” Fischer yelped. “You can’t just kill me.”
“I’ll tell you what, Fischer. Get on your knees and beg me for your life. Then we’ll see what happens.”
The little man stiffened and his eyes widened. He couldn’t tell if it was fear or rage or a combination of both. He really didn’t care. He waved the barrel of the gun toward the concrete ground. He surreptitiously checked his watch as he did so.
Deputy Carson would be back in thirteen minutes.
“Down,” he barked.
Fischer stiffened. “No,” he spat. “You’re going to kill me either way.”
“Now that is just disappointing. I was looking forward to having you mewl and beg so pitifully in front of me.”
“Tough shit,” Fischer muttered. Sweat beaded at his temple and ran down the unshaven length of his gaunt cheek.
“Indeed.” He lifted the gun and pulled the trigger.
Fischer jerked at the impact of the bullet as it slammed into his forehead. Surprise covered his face before the expression was drenched in rivulets of blood.
Fischer toppled backward and hit his head on the metal frame of the jail bed. The thunk of flesh and bone on iron made the killer smile.
“Now that sounded like it hurt,” he said and moved forward. He located the brass casing and deliberately left it on the floor near the head of the bed. It was in a good spot to be found, just like he wanted.
Fischer landed on his side with one arm flung over his head. Blood pooled from the wound and dribbled onto the floor. He was careful not to step in it as he pulled out his black Ka-Bar knife. He lifted Fischer’s head with one gloved hand and twisted it around, looking for an exit wound. He didn’t find one.
He shook his head and looked into Fischer’s unseeing eyes. “Don’t move. This might sting.”
He eased the sharp point of the knife into the wound and swished it around a little bit. More blood leaked out and ran down the dead man’s face. He scooted backward and rolled him over then straddled his body, careful not to let any blood touch him. He checked his watch. Eight more minutes until the Deputy returned.
He did not want to kill her. She was a beautiful woman with a strong mind and gorgeous body. He had plans to enjoy both of them and couldn’t do so if she were dead.
He scraped the hair from Fischer’s head and found another bloody mess beneath. His scalp was split and battered. He figured it was either from the fall onto the bed or the bullet trying to work its way out.
He flipped the knife over and cursed when it sliced through the thin latex glove. He inspected the wound. Not too deep and barely bleeding. Whatever blood he lost would mingle with Fischer’s anyway. What were the chances they’d find that exact spot of blood and his DNA? Nil. He gripped the knife and battered against the split with the heavy metal hilt until the bone finally collapsed inward. He probed the opening with the tip of the blade until he heard the tink of metal on metal.
“There you are.”
He set the knife on the bed and tried to dig his fingers into the hole but it wasn’t big enough.
“Damn it,” he muttered and grabbed his knife again. He was running out of time. He shifted positions. His thighs ached with the prolonged squat and he grimaced at the pain. He whacked Fischer’s skull a few more times until the hole was big enough to get his fingers in. Within moments he found the bullet and pulled it out with a triumphant flourish.
Blood and brain matter splattered him. He cursed his own idiocy then wiped the mess from his face and down the length of his black pant legs. He slipped the bullet into his pocket then wiped the blade on the mattress. He slid his knife back into its sheath and stood.
He rubbed at the tightness of his thighs as he surveyed the scene. Fischer lay crumpled on the floor. A small pool of blood stained the concrete by his head. With deliberate care, he lifted the slight man and placed him on the bed. He swiped at the blood stain with the blanket then covered the dead man with it. He studied Fischer then turned the man’s face toward the wall and laid his arm over his eyes. A pleased smile touched his lips.
“There, now. Don’t you look like a man who is deep in sleep? Not a care in the world, eh, Fischer?”
He gave the dead man a snappy salute and walked from the cell.
He looked at his watch. Three minutes remained before the Deputy showed up. He removed his bloody gloves and shoved them in a pocket then withdrew another pair. He moved through the office with ease until he found his way back to the break room. Flipping the camera fuse back to its operating position, he strolled out the front door. He peeled the gloves from his hands and climbed into his car.
He pushed the start engine button then turned the car around and headed home. He flipped the radio on and sang along to the pop song stre
aming from the speakers.
Just as he turned onto Pearson Street he caught sight of headlights coming over the road behind him.
Deputy Carson had returned right on time.
He sang louder and grinned. He was glad he got out when he did.
Killing the deputy would have taken the fun out of this assignment. He had plans for her. All of which involved wine, a hot tub, and lots of naked skin.
He couldn’t wait to see her tomorrow.
* * * *
“What the hell happened?” Tag asked again for the hundredth time. He stared down at the bloody mess that used to be Brian Fischer. Two crime scene techs were in the cell with the coroner and the body. They all wore blue jumpsuits with FBI stenciled in yellow across the back.
“Someone killed him,” Boone said.
“No shit. How?”
“With a gun.” Boone held up a bagged splintered brass casing. “Looks like a .357.” His dark-black eyes dropped to the gun holstered on Tag’s belt. “Just like the one you’re carrying.”
Fury blasted through Tag with the speed of a sonic boom. “Don’t you dare suggest I did this, Boone. That’s bullshit and we both know it.”
The tall lawman held his eyes for a long, indecipherable moment. Tag hated the way his friend could hide his thoughts so damn well. No man should be that inscrutable. Not even one with Native American heritage and shaman ancestry.
Sweat formed at the base of Tag’s throat and he swallowed hard. He looked away and stared at Fischer’s orange-clad body. The prison jumpsuit was splotched with patches of dark, dried blood.
The coroner knelt next to him and plunged a needle-pointed thermometer into the dead man’s side. Tag gagged and looked up.
“Damn it, Boone, you know me.”
“Yeah and that’s the problem.” He nodded toward the body. “You hated him, Tag. That was no secret. He was killed in your jail. There’s no sign of a break-in. All the locks are intact. Nothing’s broken or smashed.” His black gaze swiveled up to the whirring camera. He frowned as he pointed. “That was conveniently off during the murder.” Boone’s sharp gaze settled back on him. “Throw in your idiotic threats against Fischer yesterday and it doesn’t look good for you, Tag.”
Her Heart-Stealing Cowboys [Hellfire Ranch 2] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour) Page 3
