And he would. As he played back what Sheriff Cooper had just told him—the bit about destroying Leonard’s cell phone so no one would see the calls between them tonight—he remembered that Leonard had also sent him a series of texts. The pain began to ease. Pushing himself into a sitting position, he reread them.
Taylor: No worries. They’re coming back here.
Gary: How do you know?
Taylor: I’ve got big ears.
Gary: You’ve bugged her place.
Taylor: Office and car, too. Info’s dependable. Trust me.
Gary: We need both people.
Taylor: I know. I’m on it. If I miss them here, I know where they’re staying.
Gary: Where?
Taylor: At the Boot and Spur.
Gary had asked if Leonard meant the Boot and Spur Dude Ranch about five miles out of town because he was pretty sure that was closed at the height of the summer. He’d never received an answer. But it didn’t matter. He’d been given enough information to find them.
The truck parked in front of his neighbor’s house wasn’t one James Simpson recognized, but he knew it couldn’t be Charlie’s. They’d spoken just this morning. James had assured him that he’d irrigated the fields, and Charlie had said he wouldn’t be home for another three days.
So who was this? Patrick Dunlap? That would be his guess. Prior to his death, Stuart had opened his big mouth to his older brother and talked about his suspicions. Now Patrick was here to find his brother’s killer.
“Shit. Why can’t everyone mind their own business?” James checked the .45-caliber Glock he’d purchased in Phoenix several years ago. The gun had no serial number and was supposedly untraceable. Which was a good thing. Because it was about to be used in another crime. So was the silencer he’d purchased at the same time.
The door squealed as James opened it, and he reluctantly got out. It wasn’t as if he wanted to kill Patrick. Hell, he hadn’t wanted to kill Stuart. He’d had no choice. Stu wouldn’t quit snooping. He kept trolling the ranch, night after f**king night, making James’s job more difficult. James couldn’t allow that. If Stuart kept at it, he’d eventually see or hear something he shouldn’t and, as much as Kevin talked about hating illegal aliens, he wouldn’t be happy to hear that it was his son who’d taken it upon himself to do something that might be effective.
If only Charlie hadn’t gotten drunk at the Firelight and said some things that led Stuart to believe he might be trying to avenge that other rancher’s death. That had started everything. Stuart had admitted as much, right before James shot him. But the problem hadn’t ended with his death.
Taking a knife from under the seat, he walked over to what he believed to be the Dunlaps’ truck and slashed all four tires. Whoever it was wouldn’t be leaving Charlie’s anytime soon. It wouldn’t be until tomorrow. Maybe later. And then it would be in a body bag.
Rod waited in a storage closet in the hall. He wasn’t sure the driver of the white truck was hostile. Whoever it was had parked in such a way that Rod couldn’t see him when he got out. He couldn’t even guess who it was. But neither could he imagine too many reasons someone would need to borrow Charlie’s truck in the middle of the night while Charlie was out of town, unless that person wanted to be sure he wasn’t spotted in his own vehicle.
That led Rod to believe this guy wasn’t out doing good things.
Maybe he was about to confront the UDA killer….
Hearing the creak of footsteps in the kitchen, he opened the closet door just a little. He’d chosen this particular hiding place because he knew that whoever it was would pass him as he—or she or they—headed to the bedrooms. Then Rod could come up from behind and disarm him. He didn’t want to shoot anyone, especially when he wasn’t sure he was really in danger. There could be some other explanation for the coming and going of that white truck—not that Rod could think of one.
The heat made it hard to breathe. Squinting to keep the sweat out of his eyes, he tried to discern the slightest glimmer of light. But it was impossible. He’d turned off the lights as soon as that truck had pulled up. With the blinds down, he couldn’t even see his own hand in front of his face. He’d expected whoever it was to turn the lights back on. But, so far, that hadn’t happened. This person seemed perfectly comfortable in the dark.
Was it Leonard? If so, had he already gotten to Sophia? Was that where he’d been? Out in the desert, disposing of her body?
Muscles clenched, Rod fought to rid his mind of those thoughts. Assuming the worst would make him too eager for a confrontation. And too eager was always foolhardy. Calm down.
So who was it? Someone who knew Charlie well enough to be aware of his plans and his schedule. Leonard hung out with him at the Firelight. Leonard knew how to gain access to his house. And Leonard would love nothing more than to hurt Sophia—
Stop it! She was okay. She had to be okay. It didn’t have to be Leonard who’d taken the truck. It could be whoever was looking after the place in Charlie’s absence. Or someone else. Rod guessed Charlie kept his spare key hidden on his back porch, which was why the screen had been cut. Retrieving the keys to the truck would be as easy as walking through the house and taking them from where Charlie kept them, which explained the state of the back door. Why would the perpetrator bother to make sure it was tightly shut if he was locking the screen behind him and planned to come back in just a few hours to return the truck keys?
The creaking stopped at the mouth of the hall.
Come on. Come this way. You haven’t found me yet. That means you need to check out the bedrooms.
Fortunately, the person started walking again. He moved cautiously but it wasn’t as if Rod could hear hands swiping the walls to keep him from running into something. Somehow, the bastard could see. How?
The answer occurred to him almost as soon as the question did. Night-vision goggles. Of course. The border patrol had them. The ranchers probably did, too. Anyone who hunted in the dark would consider them standard equipment.
Four or five more steps and the intruder would be right where Rod wanted him. He wiped the sweat off his right hand so he could get a firm grip on the butt of his gun. He was ready.
Three more steps…
Two…
Wait for it…not yet….
Suddenly, his cell phone went off. With a violent curse, the man in the hall grabbed the door and tried to yank it open. Rod held it shut, but whoever it was fired, anyway.