The Profiler's Daughter (Sky Stone Thriller Series)

by Steffen, P. M.

  “Yes, ma’am. I do know something.” Brenda released Sky’s arm and stepped away. “I know what they think up North. We’re just a bunch of country bumpkins, straight up stupid.”

  “No,” Sky protested.

  “Of course they do.” Brenda’s eyes narrowed. “Why else would they send a tiny thing like you on such a mission?”

  Brenda turned abruptly and hurried across the tarmac to a small parking lot. She tossed the Prada satchel and Neiman bags into a white Cadillac Escalade and pulled out of the lot with determined speed.

  Like she was trying to put as much distance between herself and Sky as possible.

  Sky stood alone on the landing strip absorbing the flat expanse of central Texas.

  A bloody orange sunset stained the western horizon.

  The wind died. The air reeked of jet fuel.

  I’m only a few miles from Porter Manville’s hometown, Sky thought. The place where he grew up.

  She considered the unopened letter rescued from Manville’s garbage, Aunt Olivia’s plea: “Come home … All is forgiven.”

  What happened all those years ago? Why did Manville never come back to Tempest? Or even open his aunt’s letters? Why did the mere mention of his name turn a gentle soul like Brenda so skittish?

  Sky pulled the brim of the baseball cap low over her eyes and walked into Baby Peach Airport to rent a car.

  CHAPTER FORTY- FOUR

  WACO 100 was blasting country music on the FM dial.

  Sky steered the sluggish Impala south on a two-lane road while Travis Tritt riffed on flip-flops and bikini tops, something about girls gone wild. “Nine o’clock and ninety degrees in downtown Waco,” the DJ announced.

  Waco wasn’t that far from Tempest, which meant it was ninety degrees in Tempest, too. Sky was ten minutes out of Little Peach Airport before she discovered the Impala’s air conditioning was busted.

  She opened all the windows and kept driving.

  The low lights of Tempest soon appeared in the distance. Sky floored the gas pedal. By the time she pulled into a Dairy Queen on the edge of town, sweat was dripping down her brow and between her breasts.

  She maneuvered the Impala into a parking space beside an empty picnic table and took a seat on the bench. The heat was driving most customers inside or back into their air conditioned vehicles – most of which, Sky noted, were pickups. The drive-through was doing a brisk business.

  Sky yanked off the red cowboy boots and peeled the argyle socks from her feet. She chucked everything in the Impala, including the baseball cap. Raking sweat-soaked hair with her fingers, she secured it in a knot at the back of her head with a black scrunchie.

  Still hot!

  Sky slammed the Impala door shut and joined the queue.

  Heat radiated off the black asphalt beneath her bare feet. She leaned down and rolled each leg of the 7 For All Mankind jeans to the knee. Her pink camisole was so sheer Sky could detect the outline of her nipples. But it was too hot for modesty. Tomorrow she’d buy cut-offs, a t-shirt, some flip-flops. Girl gone wild.

  The Dairy Queen line consisted of a teenage couple and a noisy family of redheads – mom, dad, and five boys of varying heights, all wearing denim shorts and red t-shirts that read Dallas Cowboys Football.

  “Hello, sweet thing,” a man’s voice said from behind. “All alone on a Friday night? Nice tattoo. Is that a fairy?”

  Sky looked straight ahead and tried her best to ignore the come-on. She should have used the drive-through!

  When a light tap registered on her shoulder, she stared straight ahead and said, “Not interested.”

  “I don’t usually have to work this hard, but I’m willing,” the voice said.

  Sky whipped around to face a young man in faded jeans and a blue oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. A deep tan accentuated his blonde hair and blue eyes. Sky couldn’t decide which actor he looked more like, Channing Tatum or that guy in the Tudors, what was his name? Henry Cavill.

  Yeah, that was it. A blonde Henry Cavill.

  Sky didn’t say anything and she didn’t smile. But she did try and guess his height. Well over six feet, she decided.

  “Six feet, eight inches,” he grinned. “I get that a lot. Six feet nine, with the boots. Ya’ll aren’t from around here, are you? I would’ve noticed.”

  “I’m here on business.” Sky studied his boots. They were the color of aged oak, with horizontal seams running across the vamp at two inch intervals. And they were scaled. Like reptile skin.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance. The name is Ben. Ben Yost. Ben Yost Junior, to be technical. But my friends call me Butch.”

  He offered to shake but Sky hesitated.

  “No worries, sweet thing. I’ve got the sun in my hand.” Butch Yost gave her a look of such genuine warmth that Sky was thrown slightly off kilter.

  “Maybe you could recommend a hotel.” She extended a wary hand and offered her name. “Is Tempest always this hot in April?”

  “No, ma’am. We’re smack in the middle of a heat wave. Day three and counting.” Butch held the shake too long. “Gold fingernails,” he observed. “Fancy. And gold toes to match?”

  Sky snapped her hand back.

  “I do not recommend going barefoot, Sky.” Butch offered a solicitous frown. “Rattlesnakes. Heat wakes ‘em up. The males come out, lookin’ to mate. I ran across a six-footer on the ranch this morning. Biggest I’ve ever seen. If I was the superstitious type – which I am not – I’d call it a bad omen. Slithered right out of the rocks, my horse nearly threw me. Diamondback.”

  The family of redheads collected their cones and drifted away. Sky stepped up to the window.

  The server was a freckled girl with brown braids. “What’ll it be?” she asked with a smile.

  “Orange Julius and an order of fries,” Sky said. “With extra salt and ketchup, please.”

  “I’ve got this young lady’s meal, Amarilla.” Butch slapped a wad of greenbacks on the counter.

  “No.” Sky handed Butch his money and gave the girl a fifty dollar bill.

  “Hey, Butchie.” The girl shoved two twenties and some change at Sky. “Heard you was back from New Orleans.” She twisted the tip of a braid around her finger. “You home for good?”

  “I’m home for now. You sure are growing up fast, Amarilla. Tell your big sister I said hey.”

  “Nadine is real mad at you, Butchie.” The girl’s forehead creased with concern. “Watch your back. She might go after you with her new rifle. Tikka T3 Lite. She’s crazy ‘bout that gun. Says the trigger breaks like glass. An’ she’s a crack shot. Spends half an hour every morning before work, shooting tin cans off the back yard fence.”

  Amarilla leaned out of the concession window and peered down the dark road. “Nadine was booked full up today. And her last appointment was a double process. That always makes her mean. She’ll be leaving the Fountain of Beauty any minute, to pick me up. You’d best leave now.”

  “I expect I can handle Nadine,” Butch said.

  “Yeah,” Amarilla nodded. “You’re about the only guy ever could. Can’t ya’ll get married an’ have a baby? Me and Spike – that’s my boyfriend – we’d babysit for nothin’. Just like you and Nadine used to babysit me.”

  “Can I get a Coke?” Butch said.

  Sky finished stuffing the change in her jeans pocket and carried her food back to the picnic table. She sat facing the restaurant and watched Butch at the window.

  Amarilla was chattering away, gesturing with her hands and touching his arm. The tie of affection was obvious, but Sky could tell Butch was trying to extricate himself from the conversation because he kept looking over his shoulder at her. Like he was afraid Sky might disappear.

  Which was not a bad idea. Did she need this cowboy on her ass? So what if he looked like Henry Cavill?

  Dairy Queen ketchup had just the right amount of vinegar, Sky decided. She nibbled a fry and watched Butch Yost lope across the parking lot.

/>   “Blizzard,” he said, taking a seat across from Sky at the picnic table. “My treat. Midnight Truffle. Kinda’ goes with the gold fingernails, don’t you think?” He shoved the absurdly large concoction across the table to Sky. “The Deadwood Hotel,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You asked about a place to stay? The Deadwood has decent rooms. And a respectable restaurant. What do you say to a steak dinner tomorrow night? I’ll even let you pay, if you insist.”

  Sky ignored the flirtation and took a sip of her Orange Julius. “I have a question,” she said.

  “Shoot.” Butch snapped the plastic lid off his Coke and drank deeply.

  “Say I wanted to find out things about your life. But I didn’t want to talk to Amarilla. Or anybody in town, for that matter. How might I go about it?”

  “Wasn’t expecting that one.” Butch leaned back. “Who you so interested in? I probably know ‘em. Tempest ain’t that big.”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  Butch shook the Coke so the cubes rattled. “What about Google? I got a bio on our website, tells a little bit about me. Circle Y Ranch, in case you’re interested.”

  “No,” Sky said. “I’m talking about information of a more personal nature. About your life here in Tempest. As a teenager.”

  Butch took a few moments to consider. “Guess I’d direct you to my high school yearbook. I’d forgotten most of the stuff I did until I looked at that thing. Like a goddamned documentary on paper. You’ll pardon my French.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  Butch gave her a funny look. “You know. The usual yearbook crap.”

  “I was home schooled. No yearbook.”

  “Home schooled, huh?” Butch took another swig of Coke. “Well, there’s photographs of my many athletic contributions. Basketball, baseball, football – I was quarterback.” He paused, apparently waiting for some kind of adulatory response from Sky.

  When none was forthcoming, Butch continued. “Then there’s the Tempest High School productions. Musicals an’ such. I had starring roles in Bye Bye Birdie and Music Man. I was Harold Hill, naturally.” Butch lifted an arm and blotted his face on a shirt sleeve. “There’s the pictures of all the dances, of course. Spring Cotillions, Winter Balls. Every November we had our Sadie Hawkins Day Dance.”

  “What’s Sadie Hawkins Day?”

  “That’s where the girl asks the guy.” Butch glanced down the road. “And the proms. Lord, nearly every girlfriend I ever had is in those pages. Which is not necessarily a good thing, I assure you.”

  No, Sky silently agreed. That was a great thing.

  “What about Tempest High yearbooks from the late seventies and early eighties. Any idea where I might find those?”

  “Maybe.” Butch finished his Coke and crushed the paper cup. “Of course, I cannot part with such valuable information without recompense.”

  “I’ll be happy to pay. Name your price.” Sky began to open her wallet.

  Butch reached out and gently pulled the wallet from her hand. “Put your money away, sweet thing. That’s not what I have in mind.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight. I’m not your sweet thing.” Who did this guy think he was?

  Butch appeared unconcerned. He pulled a cardboard tub from the Dairy Queen bag and gave the contents a leisurely examination. Like he was trying to decide which side of the sandwich to attack first. He lifted the bun and fiddled with the lettuce.

  “Fine,” Sky relented. “Dinner tomorrow night. So where are those yearbooks? And you can forget about dinner if they’re not there.”

  “Oh, they’re there, all right. Tempest Public Library.” Butch grinned. “Porter Boulevard, not too far from the Deadwood Hotel.” He readjusted the lettuce. “There’s a humongous oil painting – the Battle of San Jacinto – takes up practically the whole balcony wall. Just past that painting is a janitor’s closet. That’s where you’ll find your old yearbooks. Across from the DAR Reading Room.”

  “A janitor’s closet?” Sky was skeptical.

  “I got no idea who put ‘em there, or why.” Butch waved a hand. “My buddies and me snuck in there to smoke cigarettes, back in the day. That’s how I found ‘em. We’d amuse ourselves by laughing at the hair styles. There’s some old magazines, too.” He shrugged. “Guess hard copy was all they had in those days. Poor devils.”

  Anticipation rippled through Sky. Tomorrow morning she’d hit the library, investigate Porter Manville’s high school days. And nobody had to know a thing.

  “I’m surprised you’re so familiar with the library,” she said. “Being a cowboy and all.”

  “That library is my mama’s pet project. She’s been president of the Save the Library Foundation for about a thousand years. Calls it her legacy.” Butch sniffed. “I spent so much time in that place as a youngster, I’d know those rooms blindfolded. And your instincts are correct. I’m no scholar.”

  Sky changed the subject. “What kind of boots are you wearing?”

  “Lucchese is the brand. The Rotary pitches in, buys a pair for the quarterback if the high school football team wins the conference championship. A long-standing tradition. Unofficial, of course. That’s top secret information.” Butch offered a self-effacing grin.

  “What kind of leather?” she asked.

  “Caiman.”

  “Excuse me?” Sky wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly.

  “Caiman,” Butch repeated. “It’s a type of crocodile. Kind of extravagant, I don’t wear ‘em that often. They’re still a little tight.”

  Caiman. Like Nicolette’s tattoo. A strange coincidence.

  Sky said, “You work on a ranch?”

  “At the moment.” Butch adjusted his position on the bench. His considerable size gave the impression that he was seated at a child’s table. “I came home a few weeks ago to help out. Some archeologist made a world shaking discovery in one of our creek beds.” Butch held his hands up in mock amazement. “They’re holding press conferences, calling it the oldest archeological site in North America. So we’re dealing with a slew of eggheads and college kids overrunning the southwest pasture. White buckets, tents, flags flying, it’s a real circus. I am the liaison between them and my daddy. He’d just as soon shoo ‘em off the property with his Remington. Mama won’t let him, of course.”

  “What’s the world shaking discovery?”

  “Oh, they dug up a bunch of tools, projectile points and whatnot. Drilled some core samples from the rocks. Dated ‘em to fifteen thousand years ago. I guess that’s the world shaking discovery. Conventional wisdom put the earliest occupation at thirteen thousand years.” Butch shrugged. “Funny what gets some folks excited. I’ve been picking up arrowheads from those fields as far back as I can remember. We just toss ‘em in an old milk pail on the back porch. Must have a few hundred in there.”

  “What were you doing in New Orleans?”

  “Playing basketball, mostly. Forward, for Tulane. I stayed after graduation, to help clean up after Hurricane Katrina.” Butch smiled again and this time Sky noticed the perfect cleft in his chin. “And I always order a pork tenderloin at the DQ.” Butch lifted his sandwich. “So now you know quite a bit about me. But I know very little about you. Excepting maybe you’re the prettiest creature I ever saw.” He lifted an instructive index finger. “Not a compliment, by the way. Merely a statement of fact.”

  “I’m a psychologist,” Sky offered. “From Boston.”

  “Well, that explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “Your disposition,” Butch said. “Serious. All business. Like you don’t have an inclination to enjoy life. Smell the roses, so to speak. What brings a Boston psychologist all the way to Tempest, Texas?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “A lady of mystery? That just happens to be my favorite variety. Rare around these parts.” Butch bit into the tenderloin and studied Sky’s face as he chewed. His blue eyes fixed on hers with an expression so intense that
Sky nearly looked away.

  Butch swallowed the last bite of tenderloin and said, “Why are you so sad?”

  “I had a miscarriage,” Sky heard herself say. “My ninth month. A car accident. My baby girl died. The doctors say I can’t have any more.”

  Butch Yost didn’t say he was sorry. He didn’t tell Sky how time would heal her wounds. He didn’t change the subject or act like he wanted to be somewhere else.

  He just reached across the picnic table in the hot night air and cupped Sky’s hands in his.

  They sat in silence as cars whipped by on the two-lane blacktop. Customers came and went, laughter bubbled up from across the lot. The teenage couple whispered to each other as they climbed into a pickup and drove away. The night air seemed to cool a bit.

  After a while, Butch released Sky’s hands. He pulled a paper napkin from the Dairy Queen bag and dabbed at her face, along her jaw line and cheeks.

  “Good as new,” he said. “Now let’s get you to the Deadwood. You need to soak in a cool bath, grab a long night’s sleep. The world always seems brighter in the morning.”

  Butch stuffed the empty wrappers and soft drink cups in the Dairy Queen bag and compressed it into a tight ball. Taking a moment to set up the shot, he lobbed the bag into a nearby trash barrel. He followed with the untouched Blizzard, sinking that as well.

  “Two points,” he said, turning to Sky. “You got any footwear you can slip on, sweet thing? I’m dead serious about those rattlers.”

  Promptly at ten the next morning, Sky stood between the white marble columns of the Tempest Public Library. The impressive Grecian structure boasted a lavish entrance pavilion. Sky read the historical marker and waited for the doors to open: Built in 1911 of native limestone with funds from Andrew Carnegie.

  The broad sky was a cloudless blue.

  On the Wells Fargo Bank across the street, a digital sign blinked 85º.

  A lone Ford pickup meandered down the deserted avenue and Sky thought about Saturday mornings in Boston. Bumper-to-bumper traffic, a din of car horns, delivery vans, bus exhaust, pedestrians glutting the sidewalks, clutching their cell phones and mocha lattés, rushing. Always rushing.