You're Not Safe (Texas Rangers) (29 page)

“Will do.” He rang off.

When he hung up he called Mitch. “Bragg.”

“Where are you?”

“The vineyard.” In the background he could hear the puppy barking. “What’s up?”

“I need for you to keep an eye on Greer.”

The sound of the dog barking faded as if Mitch moved away from him so he could hear better. “Is there some kind of trouble?”

He cut in and out of traffic. “I think there might be. I’ve a bad feeling we’re running out of time.”

“Do you have details?” Mitch’s clipped tone told Bragg his nephew’s marine training had kicked into gear.

“There is someone out there who is targeting people from Greer’s past. I think she might be next. Keep a close eye on her. Someone comes around that doesn’t smell right, I want to know about it.”

“Consider it done.”

“Thanks. I know I can count on you.”

 

 

“Who are you thinking about?” she said.

“You.”

Jackson drove down the dusty road away from the mountain cabin. His gaze on the road, his hands tightened on the wheel. Blood was splattered on his shirt and hands, but he’d not stopped to wipe it off. He had a schedule to keep.

“Why?” It always pleased her when she was in his thoughts.

“You were shouting in my ear when I raised the gun. I couldn’t hear myself think. You need to know when to shut up.”

“I only tell you what you need to hear. And you need to hurry up. I’d bet money the cops see the pattern and are on their way up here.”

He pressed his foot into the accelerator. “I can’t think when you’re shouting in my ear. He nearly got the gun from me.”

“But he didn’t. You shot him right in the face.”

“It won’t look like a suicide.”

“Deal with it.”

Jackson, angry and resentful, grew silent and sullen. For many miles he didn’t say a word, focusing only on putting distance between the cabin and his truck.

He was running again. Always running. Since that day. And she had been chasing him since.

“What are you thinking?” she said, breaking the silence.

“That day.”

“By the pool?”

He spotted a produce delivery truck headed in the opposite direction on the road. He eased up on the gas and relaxed his grip on the wheel. “I remember.”

That sunny afternoon he’d found her by the pool sunning. He’d had no intention of hurting her. He’d only wanted to talk . . . to tell her his deepest thoughts. She’d sat up blurry-eyed and confused as he’d sat on the edge of her chaise. At first he couldn’t find the words. Fear came naturally to him, and he was now afraid. But he’d been tired of hiding his feelings and so he’d told her.

Instead of acceptance, her narrowing gaze possessed a dark loathing. She’d called him a pig and told him to leave her alone.

At first the rejection had left him frozen with pain and unable to move, but as she kept calling him names, hurt had turned to anger and then rage.

He didn’t remember what happened next. The events blurred by adrenaline. When his mind cleared he realized he’d dragged her to the pool and had held her face under the water until she’d drowned.

“Ah, the dark and dangerous moment?” she cooed. “You’re thinking about it again.”

“Yes.”

“And you wonder yet again how you could have killed me—someone you loved so much.”

“Yes.” Panic washed over him as he remembered how cold and still her body had felt in his arms.

Slowly the shock had ebbed and he thought in terms of his own survival. What if someone had heard her rant? His heart thrumming in his chest, he’d quickly released her body and climbed out of the pool. He’d gone to his room, stripped, and toweled off. Dressing, he took his wet clothes and tossed them in the laundry hamper.

He slid behind the wheel of his car and drove. It was all he could think to do. Later he’d try to recall what had led to his rage, but he couldn’t. As hard as he tried to imagine the moment he’d snapped, he couldn’t summon it.

When he’d arrived home, he’d wanted to retreat to his room and hide under the quilts on his bed. But his father had been waiting for him, his face white and angry. Behind him his younger sister had stood teary-eyed and quaking. As he studied his little sister’s face, he’d had the idea she somehow knew what he’d done to their other sister. But with his father standing there staring at him, he feigned shock when he heard of Meg’s death.

For an instant, Jack thought he could convince the old man of his innocence. He had always been good at pretending and making people believe. Then he noticed the videotapes from the security cameras. His father had seen. He knew.

He had been terrified.

“Dad was so mad at you,” she said, pleased. “And the more you denied it, the madder he got.”

As his little sister had stared at him from behind their father, the old man had backhanded him across the face, splitting his lip in two.

The moment Jack had stopped talking to his father, Meg had begun talking to him. She’d spoken only in whispers at first and for many years he’d been able to ignore her. But in recent years, her voice had grown louder and louder. There were days when he thought her talking would drive him insane.

The old man’s edict had been clear and strangely unavoidable. Jack would go to the Shady Grove treatment facility for therapy until the old man decided he should be released. They’d concocted a story so no one knew the truth . . . that Jack had murdered his sister during an attempted rape.

Jack had refused. He declared that he wasn’t sick or broken like the poor losers dumped at Shady Grove. He had no desire to die or hurt himself. Sure he’d lost his temper and Meg had paid a price, but he was fine. It wouldn’t happen again. He promised. He swore.

However, his father had moved with lightning speed, wrapping long smooth fingers around his neck and pinning him to the wall. In a quiet whisper the old man told him that there’d be no public accusations or trial. He would lock Jack, his only son, in the basement of the house, where he’d stay for the rest of his life. Go to Shady Grove and get help or go to hell.

Jack choked, struggling to draw in air, staring into old eyes filled with sadistic satisfaction. Unable to draw in a breath, he’d simply nodded. He’d agreed to a stay at Shady Grove and to get better.

The coming weeks and months had been a string of endless boring days. He met with a counselor, talked about his feelings, and learned what he needed to say to gain freedom. He’d not changed but had been biding his time.

And then he had seen Elizabeth for the first time at camp. He’d known in that instant he’d found a kindred spirit.

Though she was broken and damaged he learned quickly she was a healer and a caregiver. The other broken birds at the camp flocked to her and fluttered around her hoping she would say the right word to erase their pain.

He’d kept his distance but he too hadn’t been immune to Elizabeth. He’d stayed on the fringe, but he always made a point to linger close. The others had little time for him. Wrapped up in their own sorrows, they ignored him. But not Elizabeth. She’d brought him into the circle.

That last night at the campfire he’d known he was half in love with her. He’d taken the group picture not so he could remember the others, but so he could remember her. The next day the others began to leave. After they’d left Elizabeth had drawn back into herself. She didn’t have a smile or a kind word for him. She’d gotten lost again. And then she’d left. And he was alone and left to languish in the camp intended to make him better.

“I rotted in that camp for a year.”

“But you’re a clever boy. You finally won Father over.” No missing the anger rumbling under her laugh. “But your sweet Elizabeth was gone. And you never could find her.”

He hated the sound of her voice. “My suffering gives you pleasure.”

“Poor, poor baby boy.”

He had had no choice but to go on with his life. He’d gotten an education, married, divorced, and lived like any other man. And then eight months ago he’d seen Greer Templeton on television. His Elizabeth.

In that moment he’d known what it would take to make her truly happy: re-create the old group and ensure none of them ever abandoned her again.

The others were dead.

They’d been granted their dying wish.

Now it was time for Greer.

 

 

The drive up Route 12 took Winchester deep into the Hill Country and it was pitch black dark when he arrived. Despite the late hour, heat rose up off the stone driveway.

Sycamore’s home was a modest one-story ranch with a wide wraparound porch stocked with a couple of rockers. Chipped white paint on the house suggested the home had weathered too many summers without attention. Not surprising. From what he’d heard about Michael, the guy traveled a lot for business. He worked for an accounting firm in East Texas and now only retreated up here when he needed a few days off. It had been five years since Michael had been here last.

Michael had not reported into work for seven days, but no one had expected him to return to work. The word was he had stolen client money.

Winchester got out of the car and, jangling his keys in his hand, surveyed the property. A black Range Rover was parked by the weathered ranch house. No flowers or knickknacks to show a woman’s touch, this place was plain and simple, a suitable getaway for a man. Thirty, engaged, and by all accounts a success until he’d been caught embezzling.

Winchester walked around the house. The grass had browned and dried up in the heat making it more like the bristles of a brush. A rusted weather vane squeaked in gentle hot wind.

According to Greer, Michael had threatened to shoot himself with his daddy’s shotgun when he was eighteen. His mother had persuaded him to give her the weapon and when he’d complied, the parents had shipped the troubled boy to Shady Grove. There the family had learned he had been crumbling under the weight of his father’s need for perfection in his only son. By all accounts Shady Grove had helped the boy grow into a successful man.

Winchester’s boots thudded against the porch steps as he moved toward the front door. Hand on his gun, he stood to the side of the door, poised to knock. Before he could wrap his knuckles against the door, he saw that it was ajar.

Winchester drew his gun and stepped to the side as he pounded a fist on the doorjamb. “Michael Sycamore! Texas Rangers.” No answer. “Mr. Sycamore, are you in the house?”

When he received no answer he pushed on the door with his boot. The rusted hinges squeaked and groaned, as it swung open.

Winchester spotted Michael Sycamore immediately.

He sat on the center couch. A shotgun lay on the floor at his feet. And his face had been obliterated by a shotgun blast.

The blood staining Sycamore’s chest and splattering the wall behind him was fresh. He’d been shot within the last hour.

Winchester backed out of the house and reached for his phone. Two rings and he heard Bragg’s curt reply. “This is Winchester. I found what’s left of Sycamore.”

 

 

While his conversation with Winchester still replayed in his head, Bragg pulled up into the Central Austin neighborhood just before eleven. The Hyde Park area was exclusive, home to many professors and professionals who preferred the character of the older, smaller homes built in the 1920s and 30s. Moonlight glowed over shade trees drooping over sidewalks and yards with picket fences. Lights glowed in the windows.

It had taken Bragg less than an hour to get the search warrant for the Shady Grove records. The rich liked to keep their secrets but they even turned on their own when three Texans from well-connected families had been murdered within the week.

According to the records, the boy had been sent to Shady Grove because he’d taken an overdose after his older sister had drowned in the family pool. Jack had been devastated by the loss. More phone calls revealed that Jack’s parents were dead but his surviving younger sister lived in Hyde Park.

Kate Trenton’s house wasn’t large but very nice. Made of brick, it had a shade tree in the yard and a planter on the front porch filled with bright yellow flowers. The house would have been inviting if all the shades had not been drawn closed.

Bragg rang the bell and stood inches to the left of the door as he waited. Finally, footsteps sounded inside the house and he saw the flutter of curtains in the window by the door.

Locks clicked open and the door cracked open a fraction. A tall woman in her mid-twenties stared up at him with bright blue eyes, which set off pallid skin.

Bragg touched the brim of his Stetson. “Ms. Kate Trenton?”

Her gaze narrowed. “That’s right.”

“Ma’am, we are trying to find your brother, Jackson Trenton.”

Her body tensed and she drew into herself. “I haven’t seen him in a year.”

“When was that?”

Her fingers curled into fists. “He came to our father’s funeral last year, but I’ve not seen him since.”

Bragg tried to restrain his impatience. “Ma’am, may I come in? I’d like to ask you a few questions about your brother.”

She hesitated. “Why?”

“Ma’am, I don’t think you want us to have this discussion outside.”

She closed the door and he heard the scrape of the chain leaving the lock. She opened the door wide. Dressed in jeans, a red short-sleeved shirt, and tennis shoes, she hesitated and then invited him into the house.

Bragg stepped inside to a central living room with polished wood floors. It was furnished with neat crisp European furniture and Oriental rugs. Light from a crystal chandelier glistened on a round glass coffee table.

Bragg removed his hat. “Ma’am, I need to cut to the chase, if that’s all right.”

Kate smoothed her hands over her jeans. “Sure.”

“Your father sent your older brother Jack to Shady Grove Estates twelve years ago.” Not a question, but a statement.

Her lips flattened and her skin paled all the more. “That’s right.”

“According to your brother’s records, he tried to take an overdose.”

She raised her chin but didn’t answer. Her gaze darted away before returning to him.

“Your brother lived at the facility for a year.”

Again she held back.

“Ma’am, I need answers, pronto. Why are you hesitating?”

“I’m not hesitating.”

Bragg struggled to keep his patience in check. “Ma’am, I need for you to be honest with me. I need to find your brother.”

“Why are you asking?”

“We are investigating several murders.”

For a long moment she didn’t speak, as if the burden of an old secret weighed on her. “Who was killed?”

“Former residents of Shady Grove.”

Her hands trembled. He’d hit a bull’s-eye.

“Ma’am, I can tell by the look on your face something is wrong. Tell me about Jack.”

“Like I said, I haven’t seen him since our father’s funeral.”

Bragg didn’t speak but waited, sensing her story bubbled under the surface.

When she didn’t speak, he said gently, “Ms. Trenton, you need to tell me. Why was Jack at Shady Grove? His file said he tried to overdose after your older sister’s accidental drowning.”

A bitter smile twisted the edge of her mouth. “He didn’t overdose.” For a long moment she didn’t speak. “He drowned our sister.”

“What?”

“I was twelve. He was twenty and Meg was twenty-one. Dad and I came home and discovered Meg floating in the pool. Jack was nowhere to be found. Dad pulled the security footage of the pool area. And he saw what Jack had done.” The words rushed out as if she’d released infection from an unhealed wound.

He ground his teeth. “Jack drowned your sister.”

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “There was no audio so we don’t know what had been said but we watched as Jack approached our sister and then she shook her head and shouted. He got angry and dragged her to the pool.” She closed her eyes. “He held her under the water until she stopped moving. And then he ran. Dad followed his wet footprints to his room and then to the garage. His car was gone. Jack came home several hours later. Dad had cleaned up the footprints and called the police. He told them she’d killed herself.”

“And he moved Jack to Shady Grove.”

“Dad thought if he kept Jack medicated he could control him. And he did. For a time. And then Jack convinced him he was desperately sorry over Meg’s death. Dad wanted to believe him. Finally the old man relented, and he let Jack go.”

Bragg drew in a deep breath, trying to control the anger rolling through his veins like liquid fire. “Has Jack contacted you at all?”

She swallowed. “He’s afraid of me. I have the security video from the night Meg died. If anything happens to me, it goes to the police. Dad set it up that way years ago.”

“Do you have a recent picture of your brother?”

“No. But when I saw him at the funeral I was shocked. He’s changed a lot. His hair is short and dark and he doesn’t wear his glasses anymore.”

 

 

Digging up a grave in a cemetery was no easy task. It required permission of the family, viable reasons, court orders, and of course a crew of workers. But Jack had none of those. No one would give him permission to dig up a grave and day workers were a suspicious lot and fearful of cemeteries at night.

So Jack had abandoned the idea of digging up the grave. The tall granite headstone was a powerful image and would suffice. He picked up the wilting white roses, sniffed them, and then tossed them into the shadows.

“What time is it?” she said.

He checked his watch. “Time to go.”

“This is the last one. You can’t screw this up.”

Irritated, he shut his eyes and clung to his temper. “Shut up! I’m sick of hearing you talk, Meg.”

She laughed. “That’s too bad. Because you’re stuck with me until the day you die.”

“Bitch.”

“Murderer.”

The time had come. Time to act.

As he turned, he tipped his head to the headstone:
JEFFREY ROBERT TEMPLETON
.