Bull Ryan lay facedown in the middle of the floor. He couldn’t have been there long, probably since quitting time the day before, but the smell of death was overwhelming and would only get worse as the day grew warmer.
There was no blood, no gunshot wound, no knife sticking out of his back.
The only injury, as far as Luke could tell, was at the top of his head. His scalp had been lacerated and was hanging at an odd angle, like a misplaced flap.
Now Luke understood Clay’s fury It flowed through him as well, cold and deliberate, hardening his heart and icing his veins.
Bull Ryan had been scalped.
Luke knew immediately that his people were not responsible for this. The Luiseño had never practiced scalping. None of the California Indians had.
Nor did Bull appear to have died from the injury. There was almost no blood, indicating that the wound had been inflicted postmortem. Whoever did this scalped Bull Ryan after they killed him.
The idea that someone would defile a corpse this way chilled and disgusted him. The fact that they had done so with the clear intention to cast suspicion upon, and aspersions toward, his own culture, enraged him.
It was difficult to stay in the room without flying off the handle, to continue his silent examination when he wanted to shout in anger, but Luke kept a quiet front. The evidence would have to be gone over with a fine-tooth comb, and he was sure the FBI would be meticulous. They might be condescending and culturally insensitive, but they were always meticulous.
For now, Luke limited himself to studying the piece of paper clasped in Bull’s dead hand. It appeared to be an employment application. Crouching down, he nudged the top of the page with his penlight, revealing a young man’s slanted scrawl:
Dylan Phillips.
“Fuck,” he muttered, standing abruptly. Shit piled on top of shit.
Outside the trailer, Chief Mortero studied him dispassionately and Clay looked as though he was ready to throw down.
Luke had a flash of intuition. Clay Trujillo didn’t think one of his own people was responsible for this … cultural mutilation. He thought Luke had done it.
“You got something to say to me?” he asked Clay.
Chief Mortero raised his dark brows. “This is a conversation …” he trailed off, nodding toward the group of workers in the near distance, “… not meant to carry on the wind.”
Luke agreed one hundred percent. He pointed at Clay. “Let’s take a walk.”
Clay followed him readily but Chief Mortero stayed behind, which was even better. Luke didn’t want anyone to come between his fists and Clay’s face.
“You can’t think I had anything to do with that,” he said as soon as they were out of earshot, standing on a clearing of sandy, hard-packed dirt.
“You’re an outsider. And an Indian.” He squinted at Luke’s neatly pressed clothes and close-cropped hair. “Sort of.”
Luke saw red. It was the same kind of insult he’d heard throughout his childhood. You’re not Indian enough. You act too white. Coming from a guy with blue eyes, it smarted hard. “I have more Native blood than you ever will.”
Clay lifted his chin. “At least I’m proud of who I am.”
Luke grabbed him by the front of his uniform. “And I’m not? Why, because I have short hair? That ponytail might have gotten you a lot of pussy in college, pretty boy, but it doesn’t make you any more Indian than me.”
Clay shoved him backward. “You brought this trouble, Chief. It followed you here.”
“I didn’t bring shit,” he returned, standing his ground. “This town was already fucked up when I came.”
“Oh, yeah? I heard there was a hit on you.”
Luke’s blood ran cold. “Who told you that?”
“Mike Shepherd.”
Christ. There truly were no secrets in Tenaja Falls. “The guys in Vegas wouldn’t mess around with fires or cryptic signs. They’d just shoot me in the head and be done with it.”
“Why didn’t they do that the first time?”
Luke had considered this question before. A bulletproof vest was not an inconspicuous accessory. “Maybe they wanted me gone, not necessarily dead.”
“Mission accomplished.”
“Yeah,” he said dismissively, no longer bitter about the turn of events.
“We don’t want you here, either. Take your bad vibes somewhere else.”
This community didn’t want him? How ironic. But Luke was damned if he was going to let anyone tell him he couldn’t stay. “I have no motive to harm Bull Ryan. You, on the other hand, are his estranged son.”
“I prefer the term unacknowledged,” he said, his voice dripping sarcasm.
Luke studied his tense face, knowing Clay was struggling to hide how much being illegitimate bothered him. “Does Jesse know you’re in love with his wife?”
Clay’s mouth twisted bitterly, but he made no reply.
“Maybe I’ll ask him myself.”
“You do that.”
Luke felt some of his anger seep away, because he could empathize with Clay. Although Bull hadn’t treated him like a son, Clay mourned the loss all the same. Luke knew how that was. He missed his own father, a man who’d never really been there for him and still wasn’t.
“Is Jesse at the station?”
Clay nodded. “Sleeping like a baby.”
“I’ll meet you over there,” Luke said. “But first, I’m going to send Garrett out to pick up someone. A person of interest.”
“Who?”
“Dylan Phillips.”
Dylan arrived at school dead tired. He hadn’t slept well last night, after Angel left, and he hadn’t slept at all the night before.
As soon as he got home from work tonight, he was going straight to bed.
He stopped by the vending machines on the way to his locker and bought a twenty-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew. Chugging it, because he needed the caffeine rush before his first-period class, he made his way through the teeming masses, shouldering past giggling cheerleaders and raccoon-eyed Goths.
He entered his locker combination and opened it automatically, going through the motions. The sugary soft drink was already kicking in, rousing him from his zombielike state. When he saw what was pasted inside his locker, the green plastic bottle slipped from his hand, hitting the ground at his feet and spraying sticky yellow liquid all over his Vans.
Ignoring the mess, he reached out to grab the picture.
It was a graphic, full-color shot, totally Not Safe for School, obviously printed out from a porn site on the Internet. The woman in the photo had her hand between her splayed legs, fingers spreading herself open, showing everything she had to offer.
Her body was that of a stranger, but her head, obviously applied by Photoshop, belonged to Shay.
Rage swept through him at the sight. Although the cut-and-paste job was good, he recognized the photo of Shay that had been superimposed over the porn star’s face. It had been taken during a backyard BBQ at the Pinter residence on Chad’s seventeenth birthday.
“Motherfucker,” he muttered, crushing the printout in his hands.
Down the hall, there was a burst of male laughter. Dylan looked their way, only to see Chad with a group of his football buddies, all holding copies of the same picture. When Chad was sure he had Dylan’s attention, he leaned forward and licked the page.
“Motherfucker,” he said again, through clenched teeth.
Chad laughed and disappeared down the hall with his friends, who were making rude jokes and clapping him on the back.
By the time the bell rang, Dylan still hadn’t moved. He was standing at his open locker door, shaking with anger, the fake picture of his sister crumpled in his fist.
He felt like he was going to explode.
He wanted to blow something apart.
There were no incendiary devices in his locker, because he wasn’t that stupid, but there were plenty of dangerous materials in the chemistry lab. He pictured breaking the glass cas
e in Mr. Richards’ office, stealing a shitload of stuff, and rigging a homemade bomb to put inside Chad’s locker.
In this fantasy, severed limbs and general mayhem ensued. Followed immediately by his arrest, expulsion, and incarceration.
“Damn it,” he breathed, knowing he couldn’t go that route.
He couldn’t even fight Chad the old-fashioned way, mano a mano, at least not on school grounds, without getting into trouble with the law.
After taking a few deep breaths to calm his fury, it occurred to him that he didn’t need to use chemical warfare or even his fists. He didn’t have any explosives on him, but he did have a buck knife. He’d thought it might come in handy at the job site this afternoon, or he wouldn’t have brought the contraband item to school.
Now he would use it to exact some revenge.
Going to class was out of the question in his volatile state of mind, so he shut his locker and picked up his soda. It was still half full. Lifting the bottle to his mouth with one hand, he shoved the picture into his pocket with the other, continuing down the hall and across the quad, making his way out to the parking lot and walking off school grounds.
After breakfast, Angel sent Yoli and Daniel out to wait for the school bus. “I want to talk to you for a minute,” she said, putting her hand on Ricardo’s shoulder before he could follow them.
Ricky was twelve, much too young for the burden she was about to put on him. His brown eyes darted back and forth as the wheels in his mind turned, considering what kind of trouble he’d gotten into lately.
It must have been bad, because his shoulders slumped forward and he nodded, taking a seat on the couch, resigned to his fate.
She smiled at his antics, although her heart was breaking. “Now that Juan Carlos is gone, you’re the man of the house. Besides Dad, I mean.”
He narrowed his eyes. Ricky wasn’t good in school, but he was street smart and sharp. “I guess so,” he said. He probably didn’t want the role, or to take on any new responsibilities.
Too bad.
“I need you to take care of Daniel and Yoli.”
He leapt to his feet. “Ya los cuido!” he protested, tapping his thin chest. I already do.
She glanced out the window, making sure her brother and sister hadn’t overheard. Daniel was a quiet, sensitive boy, and he wouldn’t take the news of her leaving well. Ricky was more like Juan Carlos, fiercely independent and ready to take on the world.
Yoli, in particular, would be devastated.
She hated the thought of her sister crying herself to sleep at night, like Angel had done so often after her mother left. Yoli had shared a bed with Angel for the first four years of her life, and had been more like a daughter to her than a sister. Angel’s arms ached at the thought of not being there to comfort her, to hold her when she got hurt, to hug her close and smell her hair, to kiss the curls on top of her sweet head. Tears spilled down her cheeks.
She brushed them away impatiently.
“You’re leaving,” Ricky accused.
“I’m getting a job.”
“You can get a job here.”
Sure she could. Waiting tables at Esperanza’s until she was twenty-one and serving drinks at the Round-Up after that. Or she could skip those middle steps and move right into the position Yesenia Montes had just vacated.
The job she planned on doing in Las Vegas wasn’t much better, but at least she wouldn’t be shaming her family while living under her father’s roof. And what other options were available for an uneducated girl with no job skills? She could work in a fast food restaurant or as a maid, and only make enough money to cover her own expenses.
If she could do it any other way, she would.
She took her brother by the hand. “I’m doing this for you guys. The money I send back will help Dad pay the bills.”
He glowered at her, trying to jerk his hand away.
“I have to go today,” she said, almost choking on the words. “Tell Yoli and Daniel I love them. And know that I love you.”
His face darkened with resentment. “If you loved us, you would stay.”
Agony washed over her. “Please,” she whispered, holding his hand, squeezing it tight. “Don’t say anything until tonight.”
He nodded once and she released him. Without another word, he ran out the door and across the front yard, meeting Yoli and Daniel by the side of the road. Angel went to stand at the window, waiting there until the bus came, like she always did.
When Yoli turned and waved, like she always did, flashing her gap-toothed smile, Angel felt her heart tear in two. She lifted her hand and waved back, like she always did, and as soon as the bus pulled away, she sank to the floor in the living room and cried.
She cried for her mother, who’d brought a new baby into the world even though she couldn’t take care of her other five children. She cried for her father, who’d never gotten over her mother, even though she wasn’t worthy of his love. She cried for Juan Carlos, whose criminal career was probably flourishing in juvenile hall, and for Ricky, who rarely had good days at school and wouldn’t have one today.
And finally, she cried for her little sister, who needed her most.
When she was done she felt worse instead of better, but she deserved that. She chased down an aspirin with a Coke and spent a few moments resting with a wet washcloth over her swollen eyes. After some of the tightness in her chest eased, she got up and started cleaning. She wanted the house to be perfect before she left.
Soon the breakfast dishes were put away, the laundry was done, the floors were swept and the counters cleared. Her ride wouldn’t come for a few more hours, and she was too antsy to sit still. To kill some more time, she went to her studio to get ready.
She showered and dressed and applied her makeup with shaking hands. Nothing too heavy, just a little mascara and a touch of lip gloss. She wanted to get hired, but she wasn’t a tramp. Not yet. Besides, men liked young, innocent-looking women, did they not?
Unable to meet her eyes in the mirror, she left the bathroom. For the third time in four days, someone startled her on her own turf. Dylan Phillips burst through the front door of her bedroom and pulled it shut behind him.
“Snell’s after me,” he panted, bracing his back against the door. A pulse beat rapidly at the base of his throat. “He just stopped at my house.”
“What did you do?”
He gulped and shook his head, refusing to tell her.
“Oh, Dylan,” she said in an admonishing tone, moving toward the window. If he got arrested again he’d be leaving Tenaja Falls the same way Juan Carlos had, in the back of a police car. Sure enough, Deputy Snell was driving his black-and-white cruiser along Calle Remolino, slowing down in front of her house. He must not have seen Dylan come this way, because instead of parking at the curb, he floored the engine and took off.
“He’s gone,” she said, turning back to Dylan.
He sank to a sitting position against the door, relief washing over his fine features. He was kind of sweaty, and his thin cotton T-shirt clung to the lean muscles in his chest. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bust in on you like that.”
It was her turn to shrug.
His eyes cruised over her. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere,” she said quickly.
“You look pretty.”
She warmed at the compliment. “Thanks.” Nice clothes were a luxury the Martinez clan couldn’t afford, but she was wearing her newest jeans and a slinky purple top. It was cut lower than her usual style, revealing the V between her breasts. His gaze lingered there, and she went from warm to hot.
Suddenly, she knew exactly what she wanted to do to kill the time.
Dylan was a convenient distraction, but he was also the only boy she’d ever really wanted to sleep with. Her experience with Chad had been more about punishment than pleasure, and her embraces with Tony had never ventured beyond a chaste kiss.
Her pulse pounded at the thought of being with Dylan before s
he left. This was her last chance. Her last choice.
Although she was far from worldly, she knew that taking off her clothes for strange men would change her as a person. The idea of letting them ogle her naked body made her feel dirty.
Dylan made her feel … sexy. Wanted. Beautiful.
This might be her last opportunity to be with him, or anyone, before she became jaded. She might not ever see him again. She might not ever see herself.
The misery she felt a few short hours ago didn’t disappear, but it receded into the background, replaced by a weighty feeling of power and a comforting physical excitement. Her chest rose and fell with every breath, holding his attention.
Unlike her oblivious ex-boyfriend, Dylan Phillips was easily captivated.
There was also something different about him today. Normally, he kept his eyes on her face, only letting them drop to her chest when he thought she wasn’t looking. She didn’t know what he’d done to get in trouble with the law, and she didn’t really care, but it must have been pretty bad. It seemed as though his wild, defiant side had taken over, and he was staring at her openly, not bothering to hide his desire.
She moistened her lips slowly and fidgeted with the spaghetti strap of her tank top, tracing the bodice with one fingertip. “Do you want to sit on my bed?”
His gaze jumped back up to hers. Although it was obvious he wanted her, he was tired of getting jerked around. The sexual glaze in his eyes didn’t clear; it just took on a more predatory edge. “Only if I get to fuck you on it.”
A thrill raced through her at his words. She knew he was insulting her, repaying her for toying with him one too many times. The last thing he expected was for her to agree to his terms. “Okay,” she said anyway, doing exactly that.
20
Dylan regretted the words the instant they flew out of his stupid mouth. He liked Angel, he respected her, and he was maybe even halfway in love with her. Instead of letting her know he had real feelings for her, he blurted out that sex-crazed crap?
And she said … okay? He must be losing his mind. “Okay?” he repeated, thinking he’d fantasized her response.
Set the Dark on Fire Page 23
