Ramsey's Gold (Drake Ramsey Book 1) (6 page)

“Why Texas?”

“Looking up old friends around Austin. Taking some time off. Wasn’t that what you advised?”

“Yeah. Have a good time.”

“I will. And I wanted to ask you straight. Will there be a job for me whenever I decide to return to lovely Menlo Park?”

The extended silence on the line said everything.

“Look, kid…”

“No problem, Harry. We had a good run, didn’t we?”

“Sure. Sure we did. Hey, when you get back, I’ll buy you a beer. We can talk about it. That’s all I can promise. I gotta see what happens in the meantime.”

“Yeah. Absolutely. Hopefully you don’t get sanctioned or investigated or anything.”

“Too late. They’re already nosing around.”

“I’m sorry, Harry. Really.”

“Goes with the territory. Safe travels, okay? Have a couple for me.”

“You bet.”

The freeway flowed like cold molasses, cars creeping forward in fits and starts. Drake was reminded of his lowly position in the food chain as Teslas and Mercedes sedans battled for advantage in the migration south, the late rush hour the province of the wealthy and privileged making their way from multimillion dollar estates in Palo Alto and Atherton, long after their underlings had migrated lemminglike in pursuit of their daily bread. A neon billboard announcing a sporting event at a corporate-named stadium caught his eye, and he wondered absently whether there had ever been a time when things had just been things, and not advertising opportunities.

He parked at a discount lot and rode the shuttle bus to the terminal. After being frisked, X-rayed, and eyed suspiciously, he was on the plane, waiting to take off, his seatmate a hirsute woman of generous proportions who was reading a romance novel with all the intensity of a mullah studying scripture.

Then the engines kicked in with a roar and he was pressed back into his seat as the plane leapt forward, rocketing down the strip of black and vibrating like it was going to come apart before hurtling into the cloudy sky.

Sasha and Vadim sauntered down the concrete path toward their destination. The grounds of the complex were deserted, everyone at work or at school. When they arrived at the unassuming door, they knocked and affected pleasant expressions. Nobody answered. They tried again, and when their second attempt met with silent indifference, Vadim blocked the exterior patio with his bulk while Sasha went to work on the lock. They were in thirty seconds later, and after a quick glance through the condo, Vadim shook his head – their target wasn’t there.

“Search it,” he growled in Russian.

Sasha took the bedroom while Vadim went through the living area, but neither found anything.

“We missed him,” Sasha said, his voice quiet but intense. He moved to the kitchen and opened the fridge, then snorted in disgust. “This place is a right dump. Are you sure this is our boy?”

“You saw the contact information. It’s him all right. What kind of a name is Drake, anyway?”

Sasha removed a soda, eyed the ingredients, then put it back. Vadim raised one eyebrow and pointed at the computer. He moved to it and sat down, and then opened the Internet browser with a black-gloved hand.

Ten minutes later they left the apartment as silently as they’d entered, their pace unhurried, to any observers two gentlemen without a care in the world, their suits out of place for the casual chic of the area, but not so much as to draw close scrutiny.

Chapter Eight

Drake’s first impression of Texas was that it was cold. This surprised him, given how warm it was in California in April. For whatever reason, he’d always thought of Texas as arid and hot and dusty, but what greeted him as he drove south from Austin was a lush, green, and freezing landscape, a cold snap having hit several days before. His coat was barely adequate for the unexpected chill, and he found himself muttering soft encouragement to the rental car heater as he rolled onto the highway leading to Flatonia, which as far as he could tell was population close to nothing, its industry largely agricultural, judging by the endless fields of crops he passed on the way.

He hadn’t developed a real plan for confronting Jack, but he didn’t think he would need one. Drake didn’t understand why Jack was denying knowledge of his father and Patricia, but the answer might provide further insights into what he was getting himself into. Not that he was necessarily doing anything but following up on some loose ends, learning about his family tree, he told himself.

After a late lunch at a highway fast-food restaurant, he drove the remaining few miles to Flatonia, which was even more underwhelming than he’d expected, little more than a forlorn two-block strip of brick buildings with garish façades fronting on the old Highway 90. Drake pulled past the pharmacy and the hardware store and the florist, feeling like he’d traveled through a wormhole and wound up in the 1930s, so quaint and quiet was the main drag.

He continued south and, after a series of turns, found himself at a rusting iron gate at the end of a gravel road. A faded placard that had seen better days announced the property as the Buckeye Ranch, and an imposing padlock secured the barrier in place. A “No Trespassing” sign with the outline of a rifle beneath the lettering trembled in the light breeze, which smelled like wet dirt and hay as it blew through his open window.

He parked in front of the gate and stepped out of the car. At the barbed-wire fence that ran along the front of the property, he stood and gazed across the field at three buildings several hundred yards away: a barn, a garage, and the main house, all painted with discount earth tones and in serious need of a touch-up.

A man in a heavy brown coat worked in the adjacent field, riding a tractor that was dragging something across the ground. Drake waved at him. After ten seconds with no reaction, he wasn’t sure the tractor driver had seen him, so he cupped his hands and yelled.

“Hey. Hello! Over here. At the gate.”

The tractor operator kept going. Drake yelled again, waving his arms over his head. “Hey. You, on the tractor. Over here.”

The engine ground to a halt. The man climbed from behind the wheel and, after a quick study of the field, made his slow way to the gate. He was short and stocky, built like a fireplug, his skin tanned the color of tarnished copper. Drake could make out wisps of silver hair at his temples under the Stetson that shielded piercing hazel eyes from the sun – eyes that were clear and lucid, the whites seeming backlit as he approached.

“Can I help you?” the man asked, his voice seasoned by the years, but lacking the twang Drake had been hearing since his arrival in the Lone Star state.

“Maybe so. I’m looking for Jack Brody.”

The man blinked, but held his gaze. Drake could see a muscle in his jaw tighten as he clenched his teeth, but other than that, he could have been carved from stone. He slowly pulled his heavy leather work gloves off and held them by his side as he shifted from foot to foot.

“Why?”

“I need to talk to him. Are you Jack Brody?”

“Who wants to know?”

Drake had considered this moment for halfway across the country, and now that it was here, wasn’t sure which approach to use. Did he launch into a story, try a routine, or answer honestly? He studied the web of lines on the man’s face and made a snap decision.

“The name’s Drake. Drake Ramsey.” Drake watched for a reaction, but wasn’t expecting what came next.

The man sighed, a doleful sound that contained more than fatigue or resignation, and spoke in a soft voice. “I always expected you’d show up here one day. How did you find me?”

“Jack?”

“Good guess, Sherlock.”

“I…I did some skip-tracing. Took some doing, but you’re a lousy poker player. You gave yourself away on the phone.”

“Of course. The call. I knew I should have packed up the truck and headed for Mexico. Damn near did.”

The two men stared at each other in silence. A frigid gust of wind cut across the road, carrying with it a small dust devil that spun giddily along the red dirt shoulder. Jack’s eyes followed the dervish before returning to Drake’s.

“So now what?” Jack asked.

“I’ve got some questions.”

Jack nodded. He rubbed his hand across his face and then leaned to the side and spit onto a meager patch of weeds by one of the gateposts. “I expect you do,” he said noncommittally.

“Should I ask them out here, or can we go inside?”

“How about I tell you I’ll shoot you if you set foot on my property?” Jack asked, his tone reasonable. He spit again, almost as a form of punctuation.

“I’ll just wait you out. Park here for the duration. Eventually you’ll have to leave.”

Crow’s feet deepened as the corners of Jack’s mouth tugged upward in a wan smile. “I’m self-sufficient. Not planning on leaving for a long time.”

Drake nodded and put his hands in his pockets to counter the chill. “I don’t have to be anywhere. I’ve got time.”

Jack stared off at the horizon, where the trees at the edge of his property line shivered in the wind before falling still, standing like cardboard cutouts against the crisp blue of the clear sky. He grunted and returned his attention to Drake, who was waiting patiently for him to say something more.

“You’ll have to use the bathroom at some point,” he observed.

Drake smirked. “I’m pretty good with a Gatorade bottle.”

“Man’s got to have skills. Where did you learn to skip-trace?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I could shoot you by mistake. Nobody around here would convict me if you got hit by a stray shot.”

“Probably have to shoot me more than once. Blows the whole stray thing out of the water.”

The older man grunted again. “Well, then, I suppose you might as well pull your car up to the house.”

Jack dug in a pocket of his faded jeans and extracted a brass key. He moved to the lock and sprung it open with a click. The gate protested as he pulled it inwards. Drake returned to the car and put it in gear. Gravel crunched under his tires as he rolled across the cowcatcher and onto the drive. He watched in his rearview mirror as Jack closed and relocked the gate before turning to follow Drake.

Drake shut off the engine and waited by the hood for Jack to arrive, the heat of the motor feeling good against the backs of his legs. A recent model Toyota sedan was parked by the side of the house, and a thirty-five-year-old truck near the barn. The front door of the house opened with a creak, startling him. As he turned his head, he was even more surprised by the woman who emerged – medium height, black hair, dressed in jeans that fit her like a second skin, hiking boots, and a multicolored flannel shirt that did little to conceal her gentle curves. She looked to be in her early twenties.

“Who are you?” she asked, her tone unfriendly as she moved to the porch railing.

“I’m here to see Jack Brody.”

She frowned. “That didn’t really answer my question, did it?”

“Oh, sorry. My name’s Drake.”

Jack arrived, his breath steaming the crisp air, the tip of his nose pink as he regarded her.

“Allie? This here’s Drake Ramsey. Drake, my daughter, Allison.”

Allison’s face divulged nothing, but her piercing blue eyes widened slightly as Drake approached with his hand outstretched. She took it and shook, looking over his shoulder at her father and then back at Drake.

“Nice to meet you. Everyone calls me Allie,” she said with a nervous smile.

“Allie. I guess that’s what I’ll call you too, then,” Drake said. He realized he was still holding her hand and released it.

Jack cleared his throat. “Well, come on in out of the cold, Drake. I suppose you have a lot of questions, so this could take a while.” Jack pushed past him and mounted the three stairs to the porch. “Allie, could you make up a pot of coffee for us? Hopefully this weather will turn soon, but right now it’s creeping into my bones.”

“Sure, Dad. It’ll be ready in a few minutes,” she said, her eyes still locked on Drake.

An energy passed between them, and Drake reluctantly broke away and followed Jack inside, trailed by Allie.

The interior of the house was exactly what was promised by the exterior – a sparsely furnished working man’s home, devoid of most feminine touches, the furniture comfortable and worn. Jack shed his heavy jacket and hung it on a coat rack and moved to a tan leather reclining chair near the department-store couch. He motioned to Drake to have a seat, and removed his hat and set it on the coffee table in front of him. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut short, a no-nonsense style, probably for ten bucks at a barber – no frou-frou hair salon for him.

Drake cleared his throat and began with a question he already knew the answer to.

“Why did you change your name?”

“Is there any law against it?” Jack fired back.

“No, but it seems like everyone involved with my father did it. My mother, Patricia, you…”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “That’s right. You know about Patricia. How?”

Drake saw no reason to lie. “Her attorney got in touch after she died.”

Jack looked surprised. “Patricia died? God rest her soul. She was a good woman. I haven’t heard that name for years. How did she go? She was still pretty young. No more than fifty-something…”

“A car accident.”

“Accident? A shame. World’s a poorer place for her passing.”

“I’ll have to take your word for that. I never met her.”

“You did, as a baby, but I don’t expect you’d remember that. What did the attorney want?”

“She left me some money.”

“That’s how she was. Good heart.” Jack paused. “So how did you find me, and how do you know I changed my name?”

“She passed on some personal papers about my father, and apparently she’d been keeping track of you. I guess she was still interested in keeping in touch. She mentioned you were using a new name.”

“I’m surprised. She never reached out.” He stopped as Allie entered with two cups of coffee and placed them on the table.

“Hope you like it black. We don’t have any milk. Sorry. You want any sugar?” she asked.

“No, black’s fine,” Drake said.

She stared at him for a moment and then left them to their discussion, returning to the kitchen.