She sighed.
“Baby?”
“Sir?”
“I’m fadin’.” He lifted a finger. “I want you to tell that boy God’s been linin’ out somethin’ for him to do for a long time. Folks has lived an’ died so God can show him He’s got a plan for his life. You understand?”
“Yes’r.”
His brow wrinkled. “Lots o’ folks has lived an’ died so that boy will know he’s special . . . me an’ you an’ him was chosen. I want you to remember that, an’ I want you to tell it to him. Hear me?”
“I’ll tell him.”
“That’s good.”
“Mose?”
“Yes, baby?”
“I love you, Mose.”
“I know, baby.” He smiled again and died.
Mason was there in the next minute; Pat and Mann were right behind him. They found Missy holding Mose’s hand.
Mason took off his hat and knelt on one side of the girl. Pat stood near with Bill Mann. Mann brushed absently at the front of his shirt.
Missy beckoned to Pat. “Bring him over here by me.”
She signaled for Mann to kneel by Mose, and he let her put his hand on the old man’s chest. “I’ll have to tell you this again when you can understand what I’m sayin’, but you need to know you heard it here first.”
Mann responded with a blank look.
Missy put her hand on top of the young man’s and said, “A special thing happened here today. Before he died, Mose said to tell you that you an’ me an’ him were chosen . . . We’re special. I promised him I’d tell you. Understand?”
Without changing expression, Mann reached out with his free hand and brushed at the sawdust on Mose’s face, and said, “Okay.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Late on Sunday afternoon Missy stopped by her house to pick up the dog and drove out to the house in Pilot Hill. Pat was waiting at the hospital; they’d follow as soon as Mann was checked out.
She sat in the car with her right leg propped in the passenger’s seat—in no rush to be in Mose’s house without him.
The dog asked to get out, and she opened her door. Leaves, loosened by the season and knocked down by Saturday’s storms, blanketed the yard and drive. The dog made a circuit of the yard as she watched, moving at an old man’s pace, while Missy breathed the tree-filtered air; the cats and birds were absent. After his territory was carefully inspected, the dog went up the front steps one at a time, sniffing each one. He stopped at the front door, looked it up and down, then backed away and came back to stand by the car.
“Okay, okay. Lemme get my stuff.” She worked her way out of the car. She’d used crutches more than once in the past, and getting her purse, book, and crutch under control only took a moment. When she was fully loaded, she said, “C’mon.”
She stood inside the front door and used the crutch to hold the screen door open for the dog. He backed away.
“He’s not comin’ home, Dawg,” she spoke as she would to a friend. She said the next words to herself as much as to the dog. “I had him for thirty years, an’ you had him all your life, but he’s gone now, an’ he’s not comin’ back.”
The dog’s ears flapped when he shook his head. He backed another step.
“Let me know when you change your mind.” She let the screen door slam.
The doctor told her the cast would speed her recovery and diminish the chances of re-injuring the ankle. The pain pills he’d given her were at home in the trash. If she kept her leg elevated, she could tolerate the throbbing.
She put her purse and book on the coffee table and lowered herself to the couch. Pat had spent the night at the hospital with Bill; she and the dog sat in the den all night by themselves. She put her head back and closed her eyes.
A voice said, “You should’ve listened to the dog.”
The speaker stood in the kitchen door. He was black, medium height, slender. In his hand was a small automatic pistol. She’d never seen a real silencer, but she watched movies and television. He said, “The dog knew I was here.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to know when Bill Mann will be home.”
She didn’t change expression, and he took a step toward her. “I’m a professional killer and I’m good at what I do because I enjoy it. You will eventually tell me what I want to know because you want to—but the motivating factor is the crucial thing here. I’m giving you one chance to speak without being motivated.”
She couldn’t function as well if she were shot in the knee. “They’ll be here in a few minutes, I think. Bill’s getting checked out of the hospital.”
“They who?”
“My husband and Bill.”
“Move slowly.” The automatic didn’t waver. “Use one hand . . . take your purse by the bottom and let its contents spill carefully onto the table.”
She slid forward and did as she was told. When her revolver slipped out, he said, “You Texas women are a different breed. Use the crutch and push the gun to the end of the table.”
She complied, and he picked it up. “I saw you in action at the rodeo last night. You’re the kind of person who would carry a firearm.”
“What now?”
“Now, we wait.”
“The Bainbridges sent you here.”
“One Bainbridge, actually. Congresswoman Bainbridge paid me to find Mose Washington, William Prince Jr., and the white man.”
His confession was a death sentence for Missy. “How’d she know where Mose an’ Bill were?”
“You weren’t listening. She doesn’t know where they are . . . she doesn’t know where I am.”
“You went to Cat Lake.”
“I did.”
Missy frowned. “How can she not know where you are?”
“Congresswoman Bainbridge is not someone I deem worthy of trust. I took my money and told her I would let her know when the contract was fulfilled. After this evening, I intend to find that white man and then disappear for at least ten years.”
“Whatever she paid you, we’ll pay you more—double even. Tell her Mose and Bill are dead. Take her money and ours and quit for good,” she reasoned. “If you haven’t told her they’ve been found, you can tell her they’re both dead.”
He shook his head. “Honor among thieves.”
“You’re not possessed, are you?”
“By demons? You must be joking.” He smiled for the first time. “Is anyone?”
“The woman who hired you is.”
Aacock didn’t believe her and said so.
He only took his eyes off her for a second at a time, watching her as if she were a snake. She closed her eyes and prayed, Lord, You have promised that You are my stronghold an’ shield, my very present help in time of trouble. Father, if we are to live through this, it will be because You choose to stand between us an’ this man.
She opened her eyes and the dog pawed at the screen door. When no one moved, he coughed. He’d bark next.
Aacock said, “I don’t want to hurt an animal, but I will. Does he bite?”
She knew the dog had attacked a gang member in Chicago for threatening Bill Mann. “I’ve never even heard him growl.”
He held the automatic by his leg and walked over to let the dog in.
Dawg pranced in with his tail held high—no hesitation, no hackles, no furtive looks. For the first time in his life, he passed on having the girl rub his ears. He waited until the man resumed his place by the kitchen door and lay down a few feet away. When settled, he kept his head up instead of resting it on his paws and turned a steady gaze on Missy.
“Let us pay you more money—whatever we have—all of it,” Missy was speaking earnestly. “Just leave us alone.”
Aacock shook his head without speaking.
Missy bowed her head and closed her eyes.
When she looked up Aacock was watching her. “You have a reputation as a religious woman.”
She had to ask. “Can I tell you about Jesus?”
He pointed at her crutch. “Only weak people need those.”
“You’re so wrong, an’ He’s so real.”
Her preaching brought out the worst in him. He leaned near and read the title of her book. “Things to Come. More Christian propaganda?”
She took the book, put it in her lap, and rested her hand on the cover. “The things of the future were set by God before time.” The confidence in her tone was a missed warning.
“Am I supposed to care?”
Missy bowed her head again and closed her eyes.
Aacock said, “I asked you a question.”
When Missy looked up she had tears in her eyes. “Jesus Christ died so you could live.”
Aacock, who rarely lost control of his emotions, was tired of hearing about Jesus. He spurted a chain of profane words to lend credence to his chosen stance and sneered, “I don’t want to live.”
“I know,” said the girl.
She looked at the dog. He was waiting . . . his feet under him . . . his unblinking eyes fixed on hers.
“Good dog,” she whispered.
She said it so softly that Aacock assumed she was praying with her eyes open. He caught the movement on his left and turned toward the threat.
The dog was in the air when the killer’s silenced gun coughed. The bullet hit the dog in the chest, and the animal’s body struck the man, knocking him back a step. He was near recovering when an explosion slammed him into the wall.
The woman was still sitting on the couch. The book she’d been holding was on the floor in front of her—a tattered mass of paper. It looked to Aacock as if someone had used the pages to cut out paper dolls. The woman was holding a smoking pistol. Aacock used his last thought on earth to wonder why someone would let a child cut up a perfectly good book.
Patterson and Mann found her sitting against the wall, holding the dog’s head in her lap. Her gun was on the floor by her leg.
She smiled up at them and said, “I wish you could’ve seen him. It was beautiful.”
Patterson knelt by her. Mann picked up her pistol and went to check Aacock’s body. Missy inclined her head toward the dead man. “The yardboy from Cat Lake.”
Patterson nodded. “I figured. Let me get you to a chair.”
“In a little while.” She smiled down at the dog and smoothed one of the long red ears. “He was so magnificent.”
Mann was kneeling over the killer. “We’re in trouble.”
“Nobody’s in trouble,” she said.
Mann frowned at her. “They know where we are . . . where I am.”
Missy traced her fingernails through the dog’s slick coat. “Nobody knows where you are.” She told them why.
Neither man spoke as she related what Aacock told her. When she finished, Mann said, “The Bainbridges will find out as soon as the police trace who this guy is.”
“They can’t trace someone that doesn’t exist.”
Both men looked at her.
“Hello!” called a lady’s voice. Someone was in the front yard.
Mann looked out the window. “It’s Will . . . his mom and dad are with him.” He turned and looked at Aacock’s body. “What’re we gonna do?”
“The smartest thing under the circumstances.” Pat walked to the door. “We’re going to run it right down the middle.”
Will was taking his time getting out of the car. SuAnne Pierce was coming up the steps with Bob on her heels. “We didn’t know if y’all would have chocolate cake yet, so we brought two. C’mon, boys.”
Patterson stepped out and stood between her and the door. “Have a seat on the porch, and let me get Missy and Bill.”
“Nonsense.” She stepped around him and across the threshold. Missy and Bill were standing between her and the body, but she saw it. Her mouth came open then clamped shut. She backed onto the porch.
Bob Pierce looked at her face and took her arm. “Sweet-heart?”
“Have her sit down, Bob,” said Patterson. “She’s had a shock.”
Pierce guided her to a chair.
Patterson stuck his head in the door. “Bill, I need to ask you something.”
Mann was handing Missy her crutch. “Tell them the whole thing,” he said.
SuAnne had yet to speak when Pierce turned to Patterson. “What’s going on?”
“You need to take a look in the living room,” Patterson said, “then I want you to come out here and let us tell you a story.”
Thirty minutes later, Mann, Missy, and Patterson watched as Bob Pierce finished digesting what he’d heard. SuAnne Pierce was holding Things to Come. Someone had cut away a place inside the book, a carefully carved recess that would hold a small five-shot revolver. Will was sitting quietly by his friend.
Bob Pierce sat back and ran his fingers through thinning hair. “I became a lawyer because I believed in the law. I became a district attorney because I want to see criminals punished.” He paused and rubbed his hand on his leg. “I’m getting old now, and I often see more justice outside the courts than in. If the powers-that-be get that body, I don’t think Bill will last a week.”
“What do you suggest?” asked Patterson.
“You’ve thought about this longer than I have. Do you have any plans?”
“I do,” said Missy. “I say we bury him in that low spot about a hundred yards behind the house.”
Bob and SuAnne Pierce exchanged a knowing look. She smiled and repeated his question to him. “What on earth do you do for a man who saves your son’s life?”
Bob stood up. “Where’re the shovels?”
Michael Epstein was buried in Dallas on a beautiful Monday afternoon.
Tuesday they buried Mose and his friend. A slow, soaking rain started at noon and lasted until midnight— classic funeral weather. Mann sewed the dog into a soft blue blanket, and the people watched as he lifted him like a baby and placed him on top of Mose’s casket.
Morris Erwin stood under the awning, watching the rain and visiting with some of those who lingered after the service. Millie kissed him on the cheek, and Trudy hugged his neck. He recognized A. J. Mason and spoke.
The two old-timers pulled aside, and Erwin wondered out loud why a bull would go crazy.
“I can explain it,” said Mason, “but you won’t understand it ’til you understand somethin’ else.”
“What’s that?”
“Well,” Mason cleared his throat, “I spent more’n seventy years mindin’ my own business, but I’m changin’ in my old age, an’ I need to ask you somethin’. Do you know for a fact you’ll go to Heaven when you die?”
“Do you?” asked Erwin.
Mason said, “Yep,” and told him how he knew.
Patterson was back in his office on Wednesday. Griffin was waiting for him.
They stood at the window and looked at the coming fall colors. Griffin didn’t see them. “What would possess a man like Mike Epstein to do what he did?”
Patterson remembered Missy’s descriptive phrase for what the dog had done. “It was beautiful, wasn’t it?”
Griffin thought back to the skinny kid kneeling in front of the charging bull and started to protest. As his memory added to the clarity of the image, he drifted away from the window. At the door, he stopped and said, “Yeah. It was breathtaking.”
On the Thursday after the rodeo, Missy answered her doorbell, and Dee Epstein said, “I didn’t know where else to go.”
Missy gathered the girl close and said, “I’m honored that you chose to come here.”
Kim Kerr walked into Jason Groves’s office and plopped down in a chair. When he looked up she handed him a manila folder.
“What’s this, kid?”
“Eight-by-tens of the rodeo.”
He hefted the folder. “Not very many. How much is all this gonna cost me?”
The girl shrugged.
He flipped open the folder and picked up the first picture. He looked at it for a second then showed it to her: an eight-by-ten glossy. “Nice.
Four people toasting with paper cups.”
“I like it.”
“Mmm.”
The next. “This is cute . . . a little girl kissing a man.”
“It’s her daddy.”
“Mm-hmm.” Leading Kim to think he might buy her pictures was a mistake.
The next picture was of the two old men in the “toasting” picture. They were sitting side by side—a black man with a white shadow. It was a study in the lean-jawed, unrelenting determination that made the West what it was, but the men weren’t even wearing western shirts. Groves looked at it and put it aside without comment.
When he saw the last photograph he stared at it for a long minute, then rose slowly out of his chair. He glanced at Kim and went back to the photo study. He took a magnifying glass from his center drawer and walked to the light from the window. “You took this?”
“Yes, sir.” She was looking down, busy watching herself click the tips of her thumbnails against each other.
“It hasn’t been monkeyed with or anything like that?”
“No, sir.”
He carried the picture back to his desk and picked up his phone. He was dialing when something occurred to him. He held the receiver against his chest and said, “You and I kid around a lot, Kim, but this is serious. Promise me you took this.”
She looked up at him. Two giant tears, one on each cheek, were leaving wet trails on her face. “I took the picture, Jake.”
Two weeks later the cover of Life carried Texas to the world. The cover editor wanted to retouch the photo, but the photographer was adamant—as is or nothing.
The top of the picture showed a lean man clad in a straw cowboy hat, long-sleeved western shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots vaulting a high fence. He was moving away from the camera; his body was horizontal—his legs straight, his heels together. His left arm was on the rail, his right hand was moving for his gun.
The bottom third of the black-and-white photo depicted a battle zone—men engaged in a life-or-death struggle.
And If I Die Page 32
