I Never Thought I'd See You Again: A Novelists Inc. Anthology (21 page)

“He struck here, and here, and then here in the last month,” she said.

The man used a stick and pointed to eight other markers on the map. “And these since last August,” he said, tapping the map. “Do you see a pattern, Murph?”

Sam stepped closer to the map. He bodies of water, Tahlequah, and farther east in Arkansas he saw Fort Smith where his home had been. He followed the Verdigris River to where a dam had transformed it into the lake it was now — where he had died.

“If’n you’re talkin’ about the Butcher,” he began, pointing at the lake and earning a scowl from his new partner, “he’ll make his way back up yonder.”

“Don’t tell me.” She held one hand, palm out, toward him and closed her eyes. “It’s you. I get all the damn luck.”

“My mama would’ve washed your mouth out with strong lye.”

The other agent cleared his throat while Murphy’s eyes reminded Sam of those he’d seen from the unlucky end of a gun barrel a time or two. “You must be Sam Weathers,” the man said, offering his right hand. “Agent Bryan Johnson. You and Agent Murphy have already met.”

“Not exactly,” Sam said. “She didn always wondered if therll and he’t like the way I crossed the ‘fucking street’ this morning.”

“All right, cowboy,” she said on a sigh. “We’re stuck with each other, so let’s get a couple of things straight. I’m the senior partner. You take orders from me.”

Sam folded his arms and nodded. “I’m listenin’.” He ignored the silent laughter from Agent Johnson.

“I may be small and I may be female, but I can handle this job as well as anybody and better than most.”

“Go on.”

She took a step closer, sparks flashing in her dark blue eyes. “And my
mama
didn’t care enough to wash my mouth out with lye, or even to make sure I had food in my belly.” Murphy took a moment to draw a breath. “She was too busy turning tricks to feed her habits on the streets while I was raising myself and my kid brother. So stick that where the sun don’t shine and never mention my personal life again. Got it?”

Sam understood enough of her modern slang to realize he’d been rude as hell. “Beg pardon, ma’am.”

“And don’t ‘ma’am’ me, cowboy.”

“I’m tryin’ like hell to apologize for bein’ lower than a snake’s belly, but you ain’t givin’ me a chance,” he said quietly. “And I’m a lawman — not a cowboy, ma — er, Agent Murphy.”

“Lawman?” Agent Johnson interrupted, blinking.

Sam drew a steady breath and turned his attention to their map. “We got us a killer to catch or not?”

“We do,” Murphy said on a sigh. “Apology accepted, and you’re…” she arched a brow and looked at the Stetson in his hand, “…not a cowboy.”

“And you’re not a ‘ma’am’.” That made Sam feel like he was saying she wasn’t a lady. Just wasn’t right.

She offered him her right hand. “Welcome to the Bureau, Agent Weathers.”

“Thanks.” Her hands were so tiny. He wondered how she could even hold a pistol, but knew she wouldn’t appreciate the observation. With that cap of blond hair, fair skin, and big blue eyes, she reminded him of one of his aunt’s porcelain dolls.

“Weathers, why do you think the Butcher will head north again?” Johnson asked, pointing at the map.

How could Sam explain that he had information from 1896 and Henry up in Transition? “Full circle. Scene of the crime.”

“Clichés won’t solve this, Weathers.” Murphy gave an unladylike snort. “Facts will.
Why
do you believe the Butcher is heading back to Oologah?”

“Gut instinct.”

Murphy rolled her eyes. “This is going to be a disaster.”

“Sometimes you gotta trust your gut, Agent Murphy,” he said, wishing he could tell her he really had good reasons for his belief, like he had to be ne the twenty-first century, Grar his time portal before he struck again or something equally ridiculous. He almost laughed at himself. “I just got a hunch he’s heading back there.”

“Worth considering,” Johnson said with a shrug.

Murphy stared at the map for several minutes. “His last three hits have moved steadily in that direction.” She nodded. “Okay, Weathers. We’ll be working out of the Tulsa office anyway.”

They showed him how to use the contraption that would keep him connected to Murphy when they weren’t within shouting distance. It was like Paul’s cell phone, but they claimed it was more secure.

“Keeping me on a tight rein, I see.”

Murphy arched a brow. “I have a feeling that might be necessary.”

“No comment,” Johnson said, shaking his head.

“Probably wise.” Sam remembered enough about women to keep his mouth shut once in a while.

“You finished processing, so I think we’re all set then,” she said. “I’ll show you the files we have on the Butcher tomorrow.”

He looked at the map again, picturing Paul and Winnie’s ranch in his mind’s eye. A knot formed in his belly. “We gotta stop this bastard.”

“Yeah, that’s the plan, Weathers.”

“You can call me Sam,” he said, waiting for her to offer a first name. When she didn’t, he glanced at Johnson who was chuckling again. “You got a first name, Murphy?”

“Murphy.” She started shoving papers into the same pack she’d been carrying this morning, then looked at him and said, “My
mama
never bothered to name me. Birth certificate said Baby Girl Murphy, so when I was old enough, I changed my legal name to Murphy G. Murphy. Then no matter how you address me, I’ll answer.”

This spitfire didn’t want sympathy, so he wouldn’t offer it. “Fair enough.”

“Except for ‘ma’am.’“

Sam chuckled all the way downstairs and out the door.

Henry’s observation window blurred. If this didn’t work, he could end up demoted to Purgatory. He’d only slightly changed things from the original orders. How could he resist when he’d discovered Murphy? She was already involved in Sam’s mission by her mere presence, and maybe — just maybe — he could make amends for a terrible mistake of his own . . . .

He sealed the additional instructions he had prepared for Sam and transmitted the envelope to him. Now all Henry could do was pray that he might be spared punishment for this abuse of power.

He pressed his hands to his forehead and thought back on the day Murphy’s mother — his granddaughter, Vicky — had come to him for help. He barely knew the girl, since his son and daughter-in-law had divorced quickly, and they rarely saw each other. Once in a while, his son remembered him on Christmas or Father’s Day, but half the time he never even knew where Vicky and her mother lived.“Who’s that?”edvo

Vicky grew up fatherless in a big city. She found drugs and men and booze before she was old enough to know how to handle high school — let alone mind altering-substances. She ran away and called him one rainy night — the night of his retirement party. If his missus had still been alive, or his son had bothered to show up, the night would have been perfect. Instead, he accepted his farewell from the only life he’d ever known, drank entirely too much, and when his granddaughter called him from a payphone begging for his help, he’d turned her away.

“Granddad, this is Vicky,” she’d said.

He could hear the rain pounding on the phone booth. “Vicky?” he’d asked. Too many beers had numbed his brain, but he eventually remembered — if only because she’d called him “Granddad.”

“Oh, Vicky, sure. Sure.”

“I’m in trouble, Granddad,” she’d said, sounding more like an eight-year-old than fifteen. “I need help.”

“Help?” he’d asked. “What kind of help you want from me? You and your mother never bother to let me know where you live. I never get a birthday card or an invitation to Thanksgiving. Nuttin’. And your father — my own son — didn’t bother to come to my retirement party tonight.”

She’d cried. He remembered that so vividly now. “I’m sorry, Granddad. I didn’t know.”

“Eh, whatever,” he’d said. “What kinda help do you need, little girl?”

“I . . . I’m in trouble.”

“With the law?”

“No.”

He remembered listening to the rain for several empty seconds, and he also remembered hearing a man’s voice somewhere nearby. An angry man.

“I’m pregnant.”

“Oh, Jesus.” He remembered saying that, though now he cringed at the memory. “Then I guess you gotta get married.”

“I can’t.”

More rain.

“Granddad, I don’t know who the father is.”

“You been out whoring around the city, and expect me to pay for it?” he’d yelled in his drunkenness. “In your dreams, little girl. You made your bed, you can lie in it.”

And he’d hung up on her. Just like that. His own flesh and blood. God forgive him.

He never heard from Vicky again, but the memory of that night haunted him. His son had told him her mother reported her as a runaway. Henry’s pals at the station didn’t have any record of such a report.

The night Henry had died from a massive heart attack, he’d planned to tell his son about the phone call from Vicky. God only knew where she’d gone, what she’d done, or how bad her life had turned.

Now, in Henry’s current position as Head of Transition, he had an Observation Window, and he had abused that privilege to find Vicky and he nuzzled the side of his neck their your r children. His guilt was unbearable. Vicky’s life turned to drugs, and she sold her body to support her addiction. She bore two children — Murphy and her little brother who’d died very young.

But Murphy was a tough one, and a good girl. She’d brought herself up with her own guiding hand. She had steel in her spine and iron guts. Henry wished he could have known her.

And he wished he could have done the right thing that rainy night.

“The Butcher struck again,” Paul said as Sam came downstairs the next morning. “Just got the call.”

Sam took the mug of coffee Paul shoved in his direction and said, “Shit.” He took a slug of the strong black liquid. “Where? How close?”

Paul’s face was tight and drawn. “Just above the dam.”

Sam’s heart skipped a beat. “Too close.” He sat at the table and pulled on his boots. “I been thinkin’ . . . ”

“I have a security system in the house, Sam.” Paul’s voice sounded older than his years. “I put bad guys in jail. Remember?”

“Been there.” He drew a slow breath. “That’s why the bastard killed my Martha. To slow me down.” Sam rubbed his eyes. After a moment, he looked up and met his great-great-grandson’s gaze. “Bastard just vanished. No trail. Nothin’.”

“Now we know how.”

Sam took another gulp of coffee. “That’s a fact.”

His special phone beeped. He had plugged it in as instructed last night, but danged if he remembered how to answer. It kept beeping, and he kept staring.

“Try the green button,” Paul suggested.

He did and held it up to his ear. “Sam Weathers here.”

“Better not be anybody else answering your phone,” Murphy said.

“Mornin’, Murphy.”

“The Butcher — ”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“How did — oh, that’s right. Your brother’s the DA.”

“Yes, and the crime scene is near here. You headin’ up?”

“I’m almost there,” she said. “Where can I meet you?”

“I’ll meet you. Paul will give me directions.”

“Fine.” He heard her sigh through the phone. “Sam?”

“Yes?”

“Looks like your gut was right.”

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, wishing like hell he’d been wrong. Then again, the quicker he ended this, the better. “See you soon.”

After he disconnected, Paul said, “I can take you over there after I’m dressed.”

“Ain nuzzled the side of his neck their your ’t far,” Sam said. “I thought maybe you had a saddle I could borrow.”

Paul smiled. “What do you think Agent Murphy will think about that?”

“Don’t much matter since I ain’t plannin’ on stickin’ around for a promotion.”

Paul sighed. “You having one of those gut feelings, Grandpa?”

“Yep.”

“I’ll call down to the stable and tell Frank to get the tack ready for you.”

“Much obliged.” Sam headed back upstairs to finish getting ready. Felt damned strange having to shave again.

When he went back downstairs Winnie was in the kitchen, her face paler than usual, making her freckles even more obvious. She looked young and vulnerable. Of course, he knew firsthand how tough this kindhearted woman really was.

“Morning, Sam,” she said. “This whole mess must bring back horrible memories for you.”

“Ain’t good for any of us.” He gave her a hug and she handed him a plate with a muffin. “Thanks, Winnie.”

“Paul is getting some things for you,” she said. “We thought you might want them.”

“What?”

“Take a look for yourself.” Paul set a large metal box on the counter and opened it. He pulled back some oil cloth to see a pair of six-shooters and a holster much like his own staring back at him. “After Winnie and I got married, I started going to antique shows until I found some that looked like yours. I’ve kept them in mint condition, and — before you ask — they work, and there is ammunition in the gun belt.”

Sam stared in reverence, then gave his great-great-grandson a sound back pounding and hug. “Means more to me than I can say, son.”

“Here’s one more thing,” Winnie interrupted. “Remember Amanda Hopsador?”

Sam snorted. “Ain’t likely to forget that hellion.”

“She was that.” Winnie laughed. “She saved this from your belongings and said in her Will that it was for her great-great-granddaughter.” Winnie sighed softly. “Of course, everybody thought she was silly except her husband, but the Executor made sure it was kept, as it turned out, for me.” She held what looked like a jewel case. “I never knew I would have the pleasure of returning it to its rightful owner.”

She opened the box and he blinked several times. His heart slammed against his ribs and his breath hitched. “My badge? Mine?”

“Even has your initials inside.” Winnie’s voice quavered. “I’m so happy you’re here to wear it again.” She removed his badge and handed it to him.

“Pin it on for me, Winifred?”

“You’re the only person since my mother who ever called me that.” She pinned the star in place. “There, now,” she said, stepping back with Paul to admire the badge on his denim jacket. “Right where it belongs.” the twenty-first century, Gr