Pursuit of Justice

by DiAnn Mills

  Her pulse raced. At last an opportunity to prove her training and determination. “I don’t know what to say, except thank you. I’ll not disappoint you.” Bella couldn’t stop the smile. “When do I leave?”

  “I’d like to see you on the road by lunchtime. Reservations have been made at the Courtesy Inn in Abilene near Highway 83—the same hotel where the victims stayed. Special Agent Vic Anderson from Dallas will meet you at your hotel at nine in the morning.”

  “Thank you again.” Bella couldn’t get to her computer fast enough to review all the reports on the murders and Brandt Richardson.

  “If you find yourself in over your head, don’t hesitate to contact me.” He gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Go for it.”

  Chapter 2

  Carr tossed his pillow across the room. He gave up on sleeping. He’d tried everything but counting sheep, and nothing had slowed down his mind—not even prayer. Anger, the old demon that too often wrapped its chains around him, threatened to seize control of him. Over five years had come and gone since he’d imprisoned the dragon, and he refused to release the animal again.

  Throwing back the sweat-drenched sheet, he made his way across the wooden floor, down the hall, and into the kitchen for a bottle of cold water. Green numbers flashed 2:47 on the microwave above the oven. Hours before daylight. Hours before the county sheriff’s department planted themselves at his front door again. Hours before anyone might possibly have answers about the three murdered men found on his property and shot with his rifle. The past two days and the investigation had added years to his life and wrinkles to his face. A little sleep would have been nice.

  He’d never seen dead men before, except at funerals, and Carr didn’t dwell on a body in a casket. The horror of finding those three victims continued to replay in his mind. He recalled the soaring vultures, the awkward positions of the bodies, the dried blood, the vacant eyes, and the realization that the act was deliberate. He’d have preferred a nightmare that could have been shaken off with a dose of reality.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Only an idiot failed to report a missing rifle. If he hadn’t been negligent, all of this could have been avoided, and maybe those three men would be walking around and enjoying life now instead of waiting for a proper burial.

  Carr could have been arrested for those murders. Still might be. Evidence stacked against him to the point he wondered why he hadn’t been charged. He thanked God he hadn’t been. As he reached into the refrigerator for the water, the pungent scent of jalapeños and cilantro met his nostrils. Normally Lydia’s cooking left his mouth watering long after the food disappeared, but tonight had been merely an extension of the miserable day. And just like the sleep that escaped him, so did his appetite. He uncapped the bottle and drank deeply, the cold rush springing life into his weary body.

  Sweat beaded on his brow and dripped into his eyes. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear high blood pressure and a fever had invaded him. A drug would solve a medical problem, certainly not the kind he used to ingest to eliminate stress and help him appear charming. Thank goodness the past and all of its imprints didn’t contain murder. But he’d come close, as the police records about his fiery temper indicated.

  With his new life, one dedicated to Christ, he’d hoped he would be immune to tragedy. Shouldn’t following God provide some kind of special protection? Why would God do this to him?

  Whoa. Carr reined in his thoughts. God had not stolen his rifle. Neither had He pulled the trigger, killing those men. Someone made a conscious choice to steal and murder. None of those choices were a part of God’s plan.

  Yet nothing looked likely to clear him of this atrocity. He clenched his fist and forced down the gut-punching fury, the unfairness of the whole mess. The authorities probably had their hands on his background and were searching for ways to nail him. If he were investigating the murders, he’d be doing the same thing. He looked guilty to anyone who viewed the colorful habits he had supposedly left behind.

  The timing of all this. Rotten, lousy timing. But did a man schedule three murders on his land like a businessman recorded dates and appointments on his BlackBerry? What season of the year best fit that kind of disaster? Carr moaned in the darkness, once more feeling the impact of what had happened on his ranch, his haven from the cruelty of the world. Acid burned in his stomach.

  Where was his compassion for others? What about those men’s families? Did they have anyone to comfort them? Should he step forward to offer sympathy, or would that make him look guilty?

  Recapping his bottle of water, he dragged his hand over his damp face. Focus, Carr. God had gotten him through bad times before, and He would again. All he had to do was crawl into the little red wagon labeled Radio Flyer and let God pull him along.

  “Carr, you don’t have to face this alone,” a sweet, older voice said with a slight Hispanic accent.

  He nodded in the dark, more an acknowledgment of Lydia’s presence than an agreement with her words. “You and Jasper had my back.”

  “But we weren’t the ones falsely accused.”

  “Tell that to the county sheriff’s department, since they need someone to arrest. The media has me judged and convicted. My own fault, Lydia. I discovered my rifle was missing about a week ago, but I didn’t take the time to report it.” He blew out his frustration in a sigh that sounded more like a hiss. “Darren and I have been friends since I moved here, and there’s no excuse. He’s the sheriff and deserved to know about the theft. Actually I thought maybe Jasper had borrowed it, but he’d never open my gun case without asking.”

  “Obviously you’re innocent, and Sheriff Adams thinks so too.”

  “I keep telling myself if they had found credible evidence, I’d be sitting in jail. Then again, it doesn’t matter, since they’re coming back this morning.”

  “To search for more evidence?”

  “Yes, and to question all of us again, as if we’re involved in some conspiracy to cover up the killings. I’d never heard of the Spider Rock treasure—a stupid legend that seemed important enough for one of the men to write it in the dirt before he died. I shouldn’t have . . .”

  “What?” Lydia’s soft voice had a calming effect on him, even when the woman raised it a notch with an air of wisdom and superiority.

  “I threatened one of them—the geologist,” Carr said. “He called me from a bar or a restaurant in Abilene. I could hear the music and people in the background. When he asked again for permission to dig, I told him if I found any of them on my land, they’d be run off with buckshot in their rears.”

  Lydia snapped on a light over the sink. Like him, she still wore the clothes from the night before. The dim fluorescent bulb made him blink. “Did you tell Sheriff Adams about the second call?”

  “No. And Sunday night, Miller made a third one. Now I’m wondering if my withholding information is grounds to arrest me. I’m an idiot, so wrapped up in my own little world that I failed to take responsible action. I never met any of those poor men, and they turn up dead on my ranch.”

  “Men have died since the 1700s in search of the Spider Rock gold.”

  “And I can’t believe these murders are about a treasure hunt.”

  “It’s buried out here in this part of the country—somewhere. But no one has ever been able to find anything but more clues and Spanish artifacts.” She smiled, and he saw the beauty of lost youth still in her eyes. Dark hair and dark eyes with smooth, latte-colored skin. But it was her faith that endeared her to him the most. As the light above the sink slowly grew brighter, it intensified the gold cross around her neck. “It’s real, Carr. That’s why those men were murdered.”

  “I have no reason to think otherwise.” Carr bit back his opinion of how ludicrous it sounded for a cache of lost Spanish gold to be buried in this part of the country, like someone believing Nicolas Cage’s claims in National Treasure.

  “I understand.” Her motherly instincts reached out to him, and for those qualities, he couldn�
��t fault her for believing in a legend.

  Once more he uncapped the bottle and took another long swallow of the water. “If the victims had been illegals, maybe I could make some sense of all this. Blame gang warfare or a drug cartel. Doesn’t matter that I don’t believe in the treasure theory; they did. The only thing I can figure out is greed led them here, and greed killed them.” He stared into Lydia’s tanned face. “And whoever wanted them dead used my weapon.”

  “I don’t understand who could have broken in and taken your rifle. Someone is here most of the time. The doors are kept locked. And—” she took in a deep breath—“I refuse to think the thief, the killer, is someone we know.”

  “Me either, unless the rifle was stolen while we were at church. In the meantime, I’m trying to figure out if I need a lawyer or a shrink because this is driving me nuts. We were all ready to turn the High Butte into a home for at-risk teen boys. Wish I could calm down, relax. But I’m angry. My future is in the gutter, which means the home for at-risk boys is at best on hold.”

  “We must trust God. You were sure He wanted this to be a haven for them just as it was for you. You have all the credentials and licenses and everything.”

  Guilt pelted him for not being able to stop the anger eating at his soul. “I’m feeling sorry for myself. Actually, I’m worried. Not only did someone want those three guys killed, they wanted me blamed. Smart person. Too smart for my liking.” He leaned on the kitchen counter. “I made enemies in my day, men and women who despised me. But I don’t recall anyone who’d frame me for murder.”

  “Are you praying?”

  “Like breathing. God’s probably tired of me pounding on His door.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ll brew a pot of decaf, and we’ll pray together.”

  Since he was fresh out of options, he reached for his worn Bible on the counter. “I heard Darren say the FBI has been called in on the investigation.”

  She pulled the coffee beans from the cupboard and dumped a generous amount into the grinder. “I don’t know what justifies an FBI investigation. What did Sheriff Adams say?”

  “There’s a man on their fugitive list who’s wanted for murder-for-hire and has been searching for the Spider Rock treasure.” Darren had told him more, even given Carr the fugitive’s name, but Carr had been too overwhelmed with what was happening to ask questions. First he had to get past the repulsion of what he and Jasper had discovered. At least his temper was beginning to subside.

  “When will the FBI be here?” Lydia poured water into the coffeemaker.

  “Tomorrow.” He glanced down at his Bible and then into her sweet face. “I’m scared. Real scared.”

  * * *

  While driving to Abilene, Bella considered the investigative reports about the murders. Most of the information concerning Brandt Richardson’s involvement with the Spider Rock treasure, subsequent murders, and embezzled money had been declassified, and the names of potential suspects were now stored on her laptop and BlackBerry. One of the men was listed in Forbes. Another man held the office of U.S. senator, and another was a professor at the University of Texas, a friend of the professor who had lost his life. Two others were prominent businessmen affiliated with both government and private-sector enterprises. All of the men must have been convinced of the authenticity of the Spider Rock treasure, which wasn’t illegal. Murder, on the other hand, had all of them on the FBI’s radar.

  Since her briefing this morning, she’d attempted to put together the pieces about Brandt’s possible involvement. She’d seen him in action, and he was more than capable. His Apollo-looking features had thrilled her until she saw the evil lurking below the surface. His weaknesses were money and women, with an unyielding desire to find the Spider Rock treasure. His strengths were his charisma and the mind that never shut down. It simply spun new webs.

  Carr Sullivan’s background fit easily into the treasure hunter’s picture. The rancher had all the characteristics of someone in cahoots with Brandt Richardson, someone who’d do whatever it took to find the hidden cache of gold. But she also understood Brandt’s tactics. Although the rancher had a history with Dallas police due to his partying days and temper problems, and his rifle had fired the bullets that killed the three men, she couldn’t discount Brandt’s ability to orchestrate the shootings and place the blame on an innocent man. Bella had learned a long time ago that murder brought in an interesting cast of players, and not all were guilty.

  Pulling her BlackBerry from her shoulder bag, she phoned FIG—the Field Intelligence Group—at the Houston field office to request complete reports on the high-profile businessmen. Sullivan’s former days in Dallas could have put him in contact with any of them, even Brandt Richardson.

  She fixed her attention on the trail of lawlessness Brandt had left behind him. Her conscience niggled at her. Protocol required she state her past association with Brandt, even if she was only fifteen years old at the time. But she hadn’t because she couldn’t.

  Yesteryear floated like a vapory figure too real to be cast aside. Fourteen years later and the mention of the man’s name still sent a coil of fear up her spine. Too many times today, she’d second-guessed the wisdom in taking on this assignment. She could have recommended Frank and eliminated the heartburn and queasiness this investigation would generate. For that matter, she and Frank could have worked this together with Special Agent Vic Anderson from the Dallas field office. Except Frank would want to reignite their love affair, and she had no intentions of putting herself under that pressure. Not that he wasn’t a capable agent. He had the qualifications and intellect to figure out how a twisted man’s mind worked. The two worked well together. His confidence would have compensated for her personal fears of Brandt. But she’d chosen a different path, and she would plod ahead to find a way to deal with years that were best forgotten.

  The thrill of arresting an FBI fugitive was worth keeping her eyes glued to her back. She’d work with the Violent Crime Task Force to complete this investigation and learn who murdered those men. Arresting Brandt came as an added bonus.

  As Bella drove to her hotel at twilight, she glanced around Abilene. She’d dreaded seeing the city again, but it had changed so much. For a moment she wondered if she’d driven to the wrong place. The colors of sunset in vibrant yellows and oranges looked inviting, masking the violence that had summoned her to the isolated ranch miles from the outskirts of the growing city.

  Pulling into a Chili’s restaurant near her hotel, she ordered takeout. A good meal and hours poring over the information stored on her BlackBerry and laptop awaited her. What she needed was an open mind to the truth and the ability to sort out facts from presumption. And a handle on how she’d manage an interview with Brandt.

  Chapter 3

  The following morning, Bella woke refreshed, and she needed every second of rest until this assignment was completed. At 5:45 a.m., she slipped a baby Glock into an ankle holster and pulled on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. Once her tennis shoes were tightly laced, she stretched out, anticipating a good run.

  After copying the case’s file onto a memory stick and tucking it into her pocket, she secured her computer with a cable lock and grabbed her room key and BlackBerry. Anyone attempting to see what her computer contained would be hit with more than one security blockade.

  She made her way from the hotel room and down the stairway to the lobby. The property had a fitness center, but this morning she needed to clear her head outside. This part of her life, the relished run, might take a vacation while she carried out her assignment. But at least for today, she’d start the day with her normal routine.

  She positioned her earbuds as though she were listening to music on her BlackBerry instead of observing the people and vehicles around her and proceeded onto the street that swung right toward Abilene’s mall. All the while, she focused her mental acuity toward anything out of the ordinary. A Hispanic man and woman sat in a late-model car in the hotel parking lot arguing. A landscap
ing truck slowed, then turned in to the hotel, its bed filled with shovels and a mound of mulch. As she ran past a Popeyes and the Sherwood Hills apartments adjacent to the fast-food restaurant, she spotted a dark green SUV parked along the curb with no visible driver.

  After an hour of running around the outskirts of the mall, she retraced her steps to the hotel. A few vehicles lingered, and she took note of colors, makes, and license plates. But nothing had impressed her as out of the ordinary.

  Back in her room, she showered and readied herself for the day in jeans and tennis shoes. Already at eight o’clock the sun beat down hard and ensured a scorcher. As soon as breakfast and her token two cups of coffee had powered her up, she grabbed her tools for the investigation and piled them into her car, often referred to as the office on the go. Vic Anderson would meet her at nine, but she didn’t know if he’d ride with her or drive his own vehicle.

  She’d grown fond of her midsize Ford and how it weaved easily in and out of traffic, as well as its performance on the road. In the past, company-issued vehicles with their mile-high antennae stuck out like lighthouses on a foggy night, but with new technology, the issued vehicles now slipped by the public—and most criminals—undetected.

  Promptly at nine, a prematurely gray-haired man dressed in jeans and a light blue button-down shirt walked into the hotel lobby and caught her attention. Vic Anderson. He looked just like his photo.

  “Special Agent Jordan?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mornin’. Agent Anderson.” He stuck out his hand, and she grasped it. “I understand the High Butte Ranch is calling our names.”

  “So I hear. My car’s outside if you don’t mind me driving.”

  He nodded. “I’ll get my equipment.”

  In the parking lot, Anderson transferred his raid jacket, Kevlar vest, and tactical belt to her trunk. He pointed to her vest folded in the corner.

  “That looks like it would fit a kid.”