Murder on the Third Try

by K. P. Gresham

  Tom answered after three rings. “Yeah?”

  Peter took a moment to collect himself. Better not let the kid know how desperate he was. “Hey, Tom, how are you?”

  “Who wants to know?” The teen-ager sounded as surly as ever.

  “It’s Peter Pendergast. I wondered if you’d be interested in making some money.”

  “Doin’ what?”

  Peter shook his head. The kid was more interested in lazing around than making a buck. Still... “Did you see yesterday’s newspapers?”

  “I don’t read newspapers.”

  Of course, he didn’t. “The story you fed me made the front page.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I need some more dirt on Jimmy Jr.”

  “And I care because?”

  “Look, you said the Novaks and the Preacher bullied your dad, then framed him for the murder of that farmer. You said they were the reason your father killed himself.”

  “So?”

  “Your father didn’t kill himself, Tom. He was murdered.” Actually, Peter wasn’t a hundred per cent sure of that but it would make Tom even madder. “Interested in finding out who did it, and maybe get some revenge on the way?”

  There was a long moment of silence, then Tom said, “You bet your ass.”

  Got him. Peter’s cat-like eyes arched, ready to pounce. “How about we get together for breakfast?”

  “Hell, no. I’ll meet you for lunch.”

  ***

  Mike Hogan, still sensitive to light, kept his eyes closed. He couldn’t see the activity around him, but he could sense it—the sounds of rubber soles squeaking on polished linoleum. The clatter of passing carts. The scent of fresh brewed coffee. He sniffed again. Somewhere close by, someone was having bacon for breakfast.

  He was alone. The nurse had explained Angie had gone to breakfast. Just as well. All night he had flitted between sleep and wakefulness. He was having trouble focusing—were the thoughts running through his mind memories or nightmares? A nameless feeling was growing in his gut. He’d felt it before, he was sure.

  The more he thought about Rutledge, the more intense the sensation became. Flashes of Mike’s father dying in his arms kept haunting him. Memories of trying to console his mother as she sobbed at his brother’s funeral had Mike fighting waves of nausea. He recalled flickers of other impressions as well. Refugees from South America being forced into the backs of semis by men holding AK-47s. A stake-out where a known drug dealer was in the front seat of a squad car. The most chilling was the image of Mike pointing his loaded 9mm Glock at the back of Rutledge’s head. Why didn’t I pull the trigger?

  Angie’d said last night that he was in the federal witness protection program. Those memories were coming back as well. He, his mother and youngest brother arriving in Iowa to begin their new lives. The gut-wrenching moment when he’d kissed his mother good-bye when he left Iowa. Why did he leave? His chest ached with the pain of not having her with him now.

  But then she wouldn’t be safe, either.

  As these thoughts clicked into focus, a clenching, nauseating tightness took hold of him. It was familiar. Persistent. Vital. Then Mike remembered the name of this feeling.

  Hate.

  Hate for the corrupt kingpin who laughed while he pissed on the mockery he’d made of the Miami police department.

  Hate for the man who had kidnapped naive immigrants with his false promise of freedom and sold them into slavery across the world.

  Hate for the man who had murdered hundreds of drug addicts who had bought, used, and died from the crap he brought in through the Miami port.

  Most of all, hate for the man who had killed his father and older brother.

  Yes!

  Mike breathed it in deeply and let its resolve fill his soul. That’s how he’d survived, he remembered now. In hate there was power. There was drive. It gave his life purpose.

  The effort cost him, however. Despite the morning activities that surrounded his bed, Mike was exhausted. He didn’t want to think anymore. The pain in his head, the tedium of being bed-ridden, the soreness of lying flat for so long. Would he be able to sleep? Even then, would he find relief in slumber or would he dream the horrible memories all over again?

  He felt for the bed remote, found it, and squeezed his eyes open enough to read the control’s display. He hit the button that brought his head up, and the comfort at sitting flushed through him. Maybe, just maybe, he could sleep.

  But even in slumber, he knew he would hate. That’s the way it had been before. He needed it to be that way now.

  Hate was the reason he always woke up.

  ***

  I’m making a run up to Austin for supplies for my day job. It’s taking all of my willpower not to drive the few blocks to Brackenridge Hospital to put a bullet into Hogan’s head. Instead, I try to think about what I could blow up that will satisfy the Chief. I get it. He didn’t exactly say I needed to blow something up, but that is my specialty. Ever since I threw that first firecracker into that “members only” Junior High chemistry club meeting, I’ve been hooked. The snobbiest of the snobby kids there even wet his pants!

  Okay, okay, I did have that screw up back in Miami, but that wasn’t my fault. The Chief told me to get rid of the Hogan brothers. Easy peasy. Thanks to the Chief’s connections, I had access to any bomb materials I needed.

  The first one went off like a charm. Bryson Hogan, Mike’s older brother, was working the Miami docks on the canine search team. When canine drug sniffers get the scent of the drugs, the dogs go wild. So I put the explosive in a bag of cocaine and planted it in the warehouse. Unfortunately the dog was only trained to sniff out drugs, not bombs. When he tore open the package of coke, he and his handler, Bryson, were blown sky high. It was great.

  My attempt on Mike Hogan Jr. didn’t go as well. I thought he was in his family’s house before I hit the detonator. But the person I’d seen in the kitchen window wasn’t Mike. It was his kid brother, Luke. What fifteen-year-old is six feet tall, for Pete’s sake? Anyway, the kid didn’t die. I understand he’s starting to eat real food now.

  Hell, that was all four years ago. Water under the bridge. But Mike Hogan’s been in my crosshairs ever since. It took a bit to find where the Feds had sent Mike and his mom and his brother. I wonder what it was like moving from sunny, humid Miami to freezing cold Iowa. But Ballard came through. The Chief’s been monitoring Hogan ever since he graduated from that church seminary in Dubuque, Iowa. When the Chief sent me to Texas to take Hogan out, I appreciated the chance to finish what I’d started.

  So. What to blow up?

  I’m driving up Congress Avenue in Austin. The Capitol, a domed, four-story, pink granite building, looms ahead of me. I stop for a red light at Austin’s “strip”—otherwise known as Sixth Street. Tourists and legislators and University of Texas students stream onto the crosswalks. Everyone in a hurry. No one paying attention to anyone else. Cars and trucks revving their engines, waiting for the green light. That’s when it comes to me.

  Austin, get ready to be bombed.

  ***

  It was after two in the afternoon before James W. drove through the gates of the trailer park where Zach had lived the last few years of his life with his son, Tom. While he’d spent so much time in Austin interviewing Matt’s security guards, the minutia of his sheriff duties had piled up—including the phone calls asking for his comments on yesterday’s Dallas Daily News article. Those had been quickly dealt away with a “no comment” and a fast hang-up.

  He parked outside Zach’s dirty blue and gray towable, remembering all too well the last time he’d come here. The sight of Zach, lying on his dingy bed, shot in the head, with most of his brains and a lot of his blood spread over the walls and bed behind him, was something James W. was unlikely to forget any time soon.

  Hoping he wouldn’t have to go in, he walked up to the door and knocked. “Tom? You in there? It’s the sheriff.”

  There was no reply, but with
Tom that didn’t mean anything. A more insolent boy he’d never met.

  He stepped back and looked around the trailer. “Tom?” he hollered. Then he spotted a broken garden stake off to the side with “For Sale” scrawled in crooked letters across the top of a ripped off poster board. He went over to read the smaller writing beneath. “To discuss terms, call—” He pulled out his pocket notebook and wrote down the number.

  Still, he had to be sure. He walked back to the front door and, knowing he was the one that had broken the lock the night Zach was shot, opened it easily. He stuck his head inside, then backed up quick from the putrid stench that assaulted his nose and brought tears to his eyes.

  “Land o’ Goshen!” He swallowed back the bile, then drew a deep breath and peered back into the trailer. Traces of Zach’s blood and guts still clung to the walls and sheets. A week’s worth of Texas heat had cooked them to a rotted scab. He couldn’t blame the boy for not being home, but the kid had no one to blame but himself. Tom had been the one to chase away the sweepers the sheriff’s department hired to clean the carnage.

  Frustrated, James W. stepped back for another breath. Between his duty to notify next of kin that their family member’s body was being released, and his secretary’s hardly-concealed worry, he knew he had to find the boy. James W. went back to the trailer door, yelled, “Tom!” one more time. The only beings that heard him were the flies that swarmed in ravenous delight over the spoiled carnage.

  He slammed the door shut. “Well, hell,” he said, his concern for his secretary growing.

  Sarah and Zach’s divorce ten years back was the nastiest he’d ever seen. Zach had a habit of beating Sarah to a bloody pulp, which she could prove. The backwards judge had awarded Zach full custody of the boy, however, when the lying bastard had accused her of being a lesbian. Which he never did prove. The deed was done, however, and Sarah Fullenweider had taken back her maiden name and done her best to rebuild her life. She’d stayed in Wilks, hoping to have contact with her son now and then, but Zach turned the boy against her. He’d made Tom into a miniature version of himself. Though only sixteen, the kid was a drunk, a thief and a liar, exactly like his old man.

  James W. headed back to his quadcab, not sure of where to look next. It seemed Aaron Rodriguez knew something of the kid’s habits. Tom had worked for a couple of years at the gas station, but when he found out the new owner was Hispanic, he’d quit.

  A cesspool for a home and a good job down the toilet. James W. shook his head. The kid was his own worst enemy.

  Just like his father.

  His cell rang, interrupting his thoughts. It was his secretary. Damn, he didn’t want to tell her he hadn’t found her son yet. “Yeah, hey, Sarah.”

  “Hey, Sheriff. Richard Dube called in a wreck on Highway 71 between here and Dannerton. The ambulance and fire trucks are on the way.”

  “I’ll get right over there.” James W. clicked off his phone and hurried to his truck.

  ***

  Mike was pissed. The nurse was hassling him about sitting up, the staff was going nuts with their frigging tests, and now this! Where the hell was Angie?

  He’d be asleep, she was here. He’d wake up, she was gone. He’d go for tests, she was here. He’d come back, she was gone. The nurse tried to explain the therapists had wanted a consult with her, but damnit, it was after three in the afternoon, and he hadn’t seen her for more than five minutes all day. What the hell?

  At least he’d figured some things out. Since he remembered now that he was in the fed’s witness protection program, he figured this pastor thing was his new identity. What a joke that was. Well, sure as hell, Rutledge wouldn’t be looking for anyone wearing a collar.

  So where was his deputy federal marshal? If Mike was in a placement within the program, he had to have an agent assigned to his case. Where the hell was that agent? When the guy showed up, maybe Mike could get some answers.

  And who was this sheriff guy, James W.? Did he know about Mike’s past? Obviously he knew Mike was in danger—he’d hired the guards that stood outside his cubicle.

  Too damned many questions and no one he dared trust except this Angie woman. So where the hell was she?

  The curtain on his cubicle whooshed aside, and his nurse—a short petite thing with eyes like lasers—fisted her hands on her waist. “Pastor Hayden! I put those bed controls out of your reach.”

  And the custodian who cleaned the area had obligingly handed them back. “I’m trying to get comfortable.”

  She stomped into the room, lowered his head, and hung the controls out of sight behind the bed. “Do you want to get worse?”

  The implication that he was bad to begin with rankled. “Where’s Angie?”

  The nurse checked his IV. “Dr. Ryan wanted a word with her. She said she might head down to the cafeteria for supper after.”

  “Where’s my supper?” he demanded. “And I don’t mean that broth crap, either.”

  The nurse’s smile was forced. “You’re getting your appetite back. That’s good.”

  She straightened the sheets on his bed, then checked the catheter bag. “What would you like?”

  “A beer and a burger.”

  “How about some mashed potatoes and gravy?”

  Mike resisted the urge to tell her what she should do with her mashed potatoes. “Maybe some ice cream.”

  “How about we start with pudding?” The nurse headed for the curtain. “We have butterscotch or vanilla or—”

  “Chocolate,” he said flatly. He watched her retreat around the curtain then called after her, “Laced with rum!”

  Chapter Ten

  A Death in the Family

  Outside Brackenridge, the hot summer day had morphed into a sultry summer evening, and Angie felt like she was stuck in a devil moon nightmare. The conversation she was having with the man she loved was . . . surreal . . . to say the least.

  “You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.” Matt’s laugh choked into a quiet moan at the sudden movement of his head. “I really am a pastor? I thought that was all a ruse.”

  Angie didn’t know what to make of this turn of events. It was great that Matt was more awake now. There was one little hitch, though. Matt didn’t remember that he was a preacher. He didn’t remember a lot of things.

  “You are Pastor Matt Hayden. Your church is Grace Lutheran in Wilks, Texas. You’ve been there almost nine months.” She knew she sounded desperate, but she hoped with each pronouncement of truth that Matt would start to remember who he was.

  “And you own a bar across the river from my church.” Matt reached for the controls of his bed. “Damn, my back hurts. When are these sons of bitches gonna let me sit up.?”

  Angie felt like she’d been slapped in the face. This was not the man with whom she had fallen in love.

  “It’s important that you keep your head at a ten-degree angle,” she said, pulling the remote out of his reach. “You want to heal quick, right?”

  “You’re not my mother,” he shot back.

  She recoiled at his harsh tone. “No, but I am your—”

  “Fiancée,” he finished sharply.

  “I was going to say friend.” Angie wasn’t sure if she wanted to scream or cry.

  “So you, a bar owner and me, a preacher, are engaged?” He chuckled. “How does that work in a small Texas town?”

  Angie squirmed. “We’re not engaged exactly. James W. only said that so I could stay with you in PCU.”

  “How not exactly engaged are we?”

  “Um.” How much more uncomfortable could this situation get? “You haven’t asked me yet.”

  He laid his hand back down on the sheets. “Does Dawn know about you?”

  “Dawn?”

  “My ex-fiancée.”

  Her face flushed. Okay. It just got more uncomfortable. “No. At least she shouldn’t know. You’re in the federal witness protection program. No one from your past is supposed to know where you are or what you’re doing. For their sake
as much as yours.” She touched his hand. “Apparently some members of your family are already dead because of what they knew.”

  “You mean they were murdered.” All amusement dropped from Matt’s tone. “Rutledge murdered my father and older brother. But he wanted me dead, too. Unfortunately he blew up my younger brother instead. My mom has to feed him, wash him. God, I wonder how they’re doing.” He looked at her sharply. “Do they know I’ve been shot?”

  Angie remembered the crooked Deputy U.S. Marshal who had tried to take Matt away from her. “I have no idea,” she said. “Maybe James W. can find out.”

  Matt’s lips thinned. “Rutledge is probably going after them too.”

  “So you remember Rutledge.” Maybe prodding him in the things he did remember would help bring his memory up to present. Her present. Her Matt.

  “Hell, yes I remember Rutledge. My father and brother are dead because of him.” His swollen face scrunched in confusion. “But I just saw them, I think. When did I just see them?”

  Angie wasn’t sure how to respond. She knew so little about their deaths. It must’ve been at least two years, maybe three, since Matt had entered the Witness Protection Program. How long did it take someone to go through a Lutheran seminary?

  “Everything was black,” he continued. “Then there was this light. Bright. Warm. And my dad and my brother were standing beside it. They looked . . . happy.” He frowned. “Wrong word. Can’t find the right one. But they were beautiful.”

  Angie could see the effort of trying to remember exhausted him. “It will all come back to you,” she whispered gently. “Don’t strain yourself. You need your strength to get better.”

  His eyes fell shut, and for a moment Angie hoped he might be drifting off to sleep. She needed time to work through this new Matt.

  Her wish was short lived. “I like your voice,” he said, his eyes still closed. “It’s kind of husky. Do you smoke?”

  “Unfortunately.” She knew she should quit. She could honestly say she’d been cutting back.