by DiAnn Mills
“It’s all I could get.”
He eyed her with a grin. “You look about the size of my daughter—five-two?”
“Right.”
He picked up her vest. “What do you use for pockets?”
“My creds, handcuffs, and gun slip nicely in the back waistband of my pants. I also use an ankle holster.”
He shook his head. “Size has its advantages.”
“So does being a woman.”
He shut the trunk. “I’ve worked with women agents, and they were able to get into places and secure information where a man didn’t have a chance.”
“And I’ve been in a few places where I wished I were a man.”
He laughed. “Okay, we’re even. Let’s get this investigation on the road. We’ve got three murders too many. Did you happen to talk to the manager of the hotel again?”
“He’s off today, so I’ll catch him tonight.”
“Just wondered. His report seemed vague to me.”
Bella liked Vic’s Southern gentleman drawl. His success rate of running down criminals was impressive, and she could learn much from him.
First thing on this morning’s agenda was a sixty-five-mile drive to the southern part of Runnels County and an interview with Carr Sullivan and his workers. Tomorrow morning, she’d talk to the manager of the Courtesy Inn and his staff about the murder victims who’d stayed on the property prior to their demise.
As soon as they left the city limits, Bella punched in the number for the Runnels County Sheriff’s Department. A woman with the voice of one who’d smoked for thirty years answered the phone.
“Sheriff Darren Adams, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“Special Agent Bella Jordan from the FBI.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll put you through.”
While she waited for Sheriff Adams to answer, she pressed in the address for Carr Sullivan’s ranch on her BlackBerry’s GPS and proceeded south on Highway 83. Finally the sheriff answered the phone.
“Special Agent Jordan, this is Sheriff Adams. I’ve been expecting your call.”
“I’m driving to the High Butte Ranch with Special Agent Vic Anderson. What time will you be there?”
“I’m here now with some of my deputies.”
“Good. I have your findings with me, and I’m looking forward to working with you on this task force. From what I’ve seen, you’ve done a top-notch job with the investigation. You’ve already seen to dusting Professor Miller’s SUV and requesting phone records. The field offices in Houston and Dallas speak highly of you.”
“Thanks. We believe in our job. I haven’t contacted the Texas Rangers since I knew you were on board. We haven’t found a single thing to link a shooter to the crime scene, but we’re scouring the area.”
“Did you place a rush on the car sweep?”
He chuckled. “Nothing out here is done fast, but I’m doing my best.”
With the limited resources available to them, the sheriff’s department had done quite well. Perhaps she could speed along the car sweep.
“Sounds like Sullivan is our prime suspect since it was his rifle that turned up missing.” She waited for the sheriff to fill in more of his thoughts.
He cleared his throat. “I . . . I don’t think he’s our man. Carr Sullivan is a fine man. In church every Sunday. Volunteers there and in the community. Likable. I read his past record, and this is not the same man. He has too many good things on his side to pin three murders on him. I’d say there was more to these killings than a rancher gunning down three men for trespassing.”
Bella inwardly moaned. With the sheriff on the side of one of the suspects, the FBI’s job would be harder. “I understand he has an alibi.”
“His employees vouched for him.”
That’s worthless. “What can you tell me about them?” Bella had read the background checks on the two people, but the findings hadn’t come from someone who knew them.
“Jasper and Lydia Flores are over sixty years old and devout Christians. Jasper knows more about ranching than anyone I know, and Lydia is the best cook in the county. Both of them have been with Carr since he bought the High Butte.”
“Let me guess. They’ve lived in this community all of their lives.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Oh, how she remembered the loyalty of these people. “How did they come to work for him?”
“Carr indicated to the pastor of our church that he needed help, and our pastor knew Jasper and Lydia were in a bit of a bind financially. It worked out well for the three of them. They’re like family.”
So Adams and Carr attended the same church. She filed that away for future reference. “Can you assist Special Agent Anderson and me with this case objectively, knowing your friends may be involved with three murders?” Bella wished she could see his face and better read how her question affected him.
“Special Agent Jordan, those people may be my friends, but that doesn’t mean one of them isn’t capable of concealing a crime. On the other hand, I trust my instincts.” Irritation ripped through his voice.
She needed to make friends with Sheriff Darren Adams, not alienate him. “I apologize if I sounded like you were not a professional.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Were you briefed as to why the FBI has been called into this investigation?”
“Brandt Richardson’s involvement in the Spider Rock treasure. He’s on your wanted list for murder and may be involved.” He recited the explanation as though she were testing him. Not good. She needed to befriend him.
“Do you believe in the treasure?”
“Lots of folks around here swear by the old stories.”
Those old stories had nearly been her demise.
“The clues are everywhere, strung out in several counties, but the likelihood of the treasure being buried in Runnels County is slim. In response to your question, I’ve more important things to do than waste my time and money on searching for a supposed treasure.”
“Thanks, Sheriff. I’m hopeful this assignment will be completed in days and not weeks or months. I’ll be at the High Butte within the hour.” Bella disconnected the call and turned to Vic. “Do you know much about the sheriff? I heard a wild tale about him, but I don’t know if it’s true.”
Vic ran his hand through his hair. “Probably is. We call him Daredevil Adams. He’s been known to climb out of the passenger side of a moving patrol car and jump onto the bed of a pickup loaded with bundles of marijuana.” He laughed. “I’ve been known to pull a stunt or two, but I’m not sure I’d risk my neck for a little grass.”
“The story I heard had him standing up to half a dozen gang members who attempted to crash a high school dance. Adams and his wife were chaperoning in plain clothes. When one of the knife-wielding boys threatened a teacher, Adams used martial arts to settle all of them down.”
“That’s Daredevil Adams.”
“I look forward to meeting this West Texas hero.” And she hoped he had the integrity her report claimed.
Bella set her BlackBerry on record and fed it the information she’d gathered from her conversation with Sheriff Adams. This also gave Vic the opportunity to hear the other side of the conversation.
The farther she drove south on Highway 83, the more remote the area and the drier the air. An eerie feeling swept through her, as if she were driving from one world into another. In essence, she was. In some of the outlying areas, the nearest large town could be an hour’s drive or more. There the folks lived by their own rules and ethics. She should know; she’d witnessed the evil that could dwell in a man’s heart in this part of Texas.
“Sheriff Adams’s friendship with Sullivan bothers me,” she said. “I’ve read the sheriff’s career stats, and they’re admirable. Yet the church loyalties could mean a cover-up, a way for those involved to look like good Christian citizens while breaking the law.”
“I agree. The sheriff could be purposely ignoring clues. I’ll t
ake a look at his reports and see if anything’s missing. When it comes to a violent crime, I don’t care whose toes get stepped on.”
“Good. While you’re at it, could you check on the vehicle belonging to Professor Miller? It was at the crime scene and hauled in for a complete sweep. The sooner we have the results, the better.”
Vic drummed his fingers on the dashboard. “I have a few questions about why you’re the lead agent.”
Here it comes. Vic’s talk about respecting women agents was about to get flushed down the toilet. “I’m surprised you weren’t informed. I spent the first fifteen years of my life in Runnels County. I know the locale.”
“I see. Is your family still here?”
“My aunt raised me, and she lives in Pennsylvania.”
“You’re a long way from home. Or close to it.”
“Depends on what a person calls home.”
Vic didn’t seem pleased with her response, and she couldn’t blame him. With his tenure at the bureau, he expected to be the lead. She considered explaining a little more, but why be defensive? She took a deep breath to rid herself of the animosity inching across the car seat. Nothing in her life had ever been easy, and nothing had led her to expect the road would be smooth now.
The countryside sprawled out on both sides of them: rolling land with little vegetation, harsh and unforgiving. Like most of her memories. Mesquite trees with their featherlike leaves and live oaks dotted the land. Cacti bloomed in yellow, adding color to the bland countryside. Everything here was a postcard of a place she vowed never to revisit.
She entered Runnels County on the north side, a little more rolling and flat. To the right of 83, fields had been plowed and irrigated. Memories, like haunting nightmares, swept over her. She needed this assignment for more reasons than she cared to list.
Once through the small town of Ballinger, the county seat, she took 67 toward Coleman and Valera, according to the GPS recommendations on her phone. These were towns she remembered from school days. She had about another six miles to the High Butte Ranch, passing over Long Branch Creek, then Bearfoot, Butternut, Mustang, and Middle Mustang creeks. More time to think and plan, and Vic wasn’t a big talker. She couldn’t tell if he was sulking about not having the lead or simply quiet.
Bella drove past a Dodge pickup caked with red dirt. The driver lifted a finger from the steering wheel. It reminded her of old neighbors—neighbors who smiled and went on with their lives, neighbors who thought Christianity meant minding their own business. Neighbors who thought they knew each other.
As much as she didn’t want to relive her younger days, if something embedded in her mind led to finding Richardson or solving the case, she’d bring it to the surface.
Opposite a cemetery, she turned right onto a narrow dirt road that was supposed to lead to the High Butte. She moaned. Railroad tracks, then a locked gate strung across the narrow road—not an unusual sight for this area, but she’d hoped for clear passage to the ranch. A sign read, 6187 Acres. No Hunting, No Fishing, No Firearms. Someone should have told the shooter. A solar panel to operate the gate was mounted high on a pole, and a call box was affixed about five feet from the ground.
“I’ve got the number for the ranch and the sheriff,” Vic said, opening the car door. “I’ll get one of them to open the gate.”
A few moments later, he shook his head and walked back to the car. “The call box doesn’t work. Imagine that.”
Bella pulled her phone from her purse to call Sheriff Adams. Rats. No connectivity. She turned to Vic. “Can you call out?”
He glanced at his BlackBerry. “Nope.”
“We could walk, but I don’t want my rear filled with buckshot.” What a way to begin the investigation.
“Neither do I want to carry our equipment or leave it behind.”
Groaning, she backed onto the paved road and headed back the six miles to Ballinger. Once inside the city limits, she parked at a feed store and saw she had the ability to call out. Again she pressed in the sheriff’s number.
“The gate’s locked on the 67 entrance,” she said after he answered.
“I entered on the west side, where there isn’t a gate. Same entrance where the victims entered. I’ll get Carr to open the gate on 67.”
“Thanks. We’re on our way.” Bella exchanged an exasperated look with Vic and drove back toward the High Butte’s gate. She drove slower this time, taking in what she could see of the ranch to the right of her. In the distance a butte rose up to meet a cloudless sky. Many of the ranches had wind power farms to generate electricity, and Sullivan’s property had them too. Frankly, she thought they were ugly.
A sharp bang startled her. A blowout. Bella lifted her foot from the gas pedal and gripped the steering wheel while maneuvering the car to the right side of the road. The left rear wheel bumped metal to the pavement as the car slowed to a stop, and she turned off the engine.
“Someone just shot out your tire.” Vic pulled his weapon from his pocket.
Another bang leveled the front left tire. “A rifle.” She leaned toward the right side of the car and retrieved the Glock 26 from her ankle holster. She lowered the windows and strained her ears, listening for more rifle fire. Only the quiet sounds of birds and insects met her.
Vic slowly lifted the handle on the passenger side, then kicked it open. He peered in all directions. All seemed quiet. “I don’t see a thing,” he whispered.
Seconds passed with her pounding heart keeping her company. So they’d been followed. A crow soared above them and called out to another. Cat and mouse was not her favorite game.
She gathered up her phone in her palm and hoped for a signal this close to town. Redialing Sheriff Adams, she realized a little good luck would fit the bill. He answered on the second ring.
“Special Agent Jordan here. We’ve got a little problem.” Bella peered up slightly through the driver’s side window. A faint dry breeze met her. “Someone’s shot out my tires.”
“Are you two okay?”
Until I run into Brandt Richardson. “Yeah. Fine. Wondering where the shooter is hiding. The shots came from the property to the north of the road.”
“Any more shots?”
“No. He’s had time, unless he only meant to scare us.” Which did scare her a little. No way would she confess that to a twenty-year seasoned agent.
“Where are you?”
She slid her finger across the GPS portion of her phone. “About three miles out of Ballinger.”
“Sit tight. We’ll be right there.”
The longer Bella waited for Sheriff Adams, the more restless she became. This is ridiculous. “Know what, Vic? I’m not sitting here waiting for the county sheriff’s department to save my hide.”
“And I don’t plan to read in the local newspaper about how the sheriff’s department saved two FBI agents.”
She caught his attention. “Our egos are bad.”
“But we’re honest. Are you calling your supervisor about the shooting?”
Bella didn’t want to inform Swartzer about the shots, but she was supposed to report the damage done to a government vehicle.
“I will later. I want to check out the tires first.”
Vic eased out the passenger side, using the door and the car as a shield. Bella crawled over the console and followed suit. A few head of Black Angus cattle grazed on the High Butte, unaffected by the rifle fire. Across the road, a clump of trees stood about six hundred feet from the car. Thick enough to hide the shooter, especially if he had a high-powered rifle. If he’d wanted to pick them off, he’d have done so before now.
“I sure would like to know if those bullets are still in my tires,” she said. “The rear is metal to the road, but the front tire should have the bullet.”
“I can take a look.”
“No thanks. I’ll do it.” She pulled a pocketknife from her purse and proceeded to the front driver’s side of her car with the knife in one hand and her Glock in the other. Vic covered
her. Kneeling, she studied the terrain again to the left. Nothing, not even a breeze. She saw where the bullet had lodged in the tire, but it was too deep for her pocketknife.
Hearing a siren, she and Vic stood to view the approaching flashing lights of the county sheriff’s car. The vehicle kicked up dirt and dust behind it like a posse on the move. Behind that one was another county sheriff’s car and then a red Ford F-250 King Ranch Crew Cab. One of the other agents had just purchased one, and he’d given every agent in the field office a tour.
The deputies emerged from their cars with their guns drawn. For Bella, a heavy dose of frustration and embarrassment lingered in the dry air. What a way to begin an assignment.
Bella and Vic stepped out from behind the open door and walked toward the sheriff. The man who emerged from the driver’s side was anything but the stereotypical country law enforcer. Sheriff Darren Adams stood nearly six feet three, was tanned, and was definitely in shape. No spare tire there. Definitely the daredevil type.
She stuck out her hand. “Sheriff Adams, good to meet you. Special Agent Bella Jordan. This is Special Agent Vic Anderson.”
She reached for her creds from the back of her waist, and Vic pulled his from his jeans pocket.
The sheriff gripped her hand lightly and made good eye contact. He gave a cursory glance at their creds. “Looks like the FBI needs to do a little field training in West Texas.”
Ouch. That hurt. “You’re probably right. Thanks for coming when you did.”
The sheriff scanned the area around them. “Any more activity?”
“No.”
“And you are okay?” He peered at one, then the other.
“Oh yes.” Bella turned to view her FBI-issued car. It looked sad, reminding her of one of the vehicles in the animated Cars movie. “I could have flipped it.”
“Could be the shooter wanted you to lose control.”
“Then he lost round one.” But she figured the shooter wanted them to understand they were being watched, and he probably got a good chuckle out of the episode.
The sheriff motioned to two officers beside him and pointed in the direction where the shots had been fired. “Take a look behind those trees in the pasture.” He shook his head at the crippled condition of her car. Deflated had taken on a whole new meaning. The driver from the pickup strode toward them.
