You're Not Safe (Texas Rangers) (5 page)

He tapped his thumb against the table, studying her. He didn’t respond.

Without asking she could read his thoughts.
Why would anyone want me? I’m worse than damaged goods. I’m a failure. A killer.

In the darkest part of the night when her brain wouldn’t stop spinning despite an exhausted body, Greer still harbored those same thoughts about herself. A dozen years, and the demons refused to leave her in peace.

“Take it or leave it. You’re not doing me any favors either way.”

Her heart racing, she turned, dodged a couple of laughing guys, and moved toward the door. A bone-deep cold made her hands tremble, but certain Mitch was watching, she kept putting one foot in front of the other.

“Damn,” she muttered as she pushed into the bright sunlight. She walked the half block to her truck and slid behind the wheel. Her chilled body soaked up the warmth and for a moment she merely sat. Finally she dug her purse out from under the front seat and from it fished out her cell phone. She dialed and the phone rang three times.

“Did you do it?”

“I did it.” She glanced at the two silver bracelets on her wrist.

“I’m proud of you.”

Greer leaned into the seat, letting the hot leather burn into her skin. Physical pain was a tried and true distraction. “Don’t be, Dr. Stewart. I didn’t issue the most welcoming invitation.”

He laughed. “If you’d been nice, it probably wouldn’t have worked. He’s had his fill of nice.”

“Well, then I’m the one for him because I don’t have a drop left to give.”

“It’s going to be fine, Greer. This will work out for both of you.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Why?”

Her voice hitched. “He reminds me of my brother.”

Silence snaked through the line. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

“How?”

“Wait and see.”

Greer fished out her keys and started the truck’s engine. “I’m pretty damn sure this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”

 

 

A spotlight shone on the picture hanging above the desk. It was a happy picture. Five teens, two boys and three girls, arms clasped, smiles bright. They were fresh-faced kids dressed casually. The clothes were carelessly wrinkled, splashed with water from the nearby lake, and smudged with dirt from the game of touch football finished mere moments before the picture was taken. A look beyond the wrinkles and the dirt revealed name-brand clothes costing hundreds and hundreds of dollars. One boy wore a family signet ring and all the girls wore jewelry, not the department store knockoffs but real gold and diamonds. But then only the most affluent families could afford Shady Grove Camp nestled thirty miles northwest of Austin.

“You are always studying that picture,” she said.

He kept his gaze on the image. Behind each of the smiling faces lurked wrenching pain. The boy with the signet ring had threatened to shoot himself. The girl with blond hair and the peaches-and-cream complexion had taken an overdose. Another had tried to freeze herself. Another cut her wrists.

So much agony. So many lost souls.

“They were a good group of kids.”

“I never understood why you liked them so much.”

“Because I understood them. Their pain.”

Her laughter rumbled in his head. “If anyone should know pain, it’s me.”

He winced. “Just stop talking.”

“Why?”

“I’m sick of your voice.”

More laughter. “Tough.”

He traced the images of the young blond girl. Elizabeth.

“You’ve been fixated on her from the beginning.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s because she reminds you of me.”

“Bullshit. She doesn’t favor you.”

“No, we didn’t look alike. But she has my spirit. She’s a fighter. Won’t let go.”

He could deny her assessment but he’d be lying. “Maybe.”

“They all have such pretty smiles.” Shady Grove taught them to smile. Extra desserts, extra time in the craft center, extra phone calls home if they smiled. Shady Grove taught them all how to hide behind a smile.

“What are you thinking?” she said.

He didn’t raise his gaze from the photo. “It breaks my heart to know they’re still so sad.”

“That last night together when that picture was snapped . . . it was a perfect time.”

“Yes.”

“Not everyone is fooled by smiles,” she said. “Not everyone believes life is preferable to death.”

“I don’t.”

“And they don’t, either. You see. I see. Now it’s your job to take away their pain for good.”

“They don’t have to go on pretending any longer.”

“No.”

 

 

A background check revealed Spike had been released from prison last year but remained on parole for another three months. It took less than fifteen minutes of calls to locate Spike’s parole officer and get the address of the car wash where Spike worked as a buffer.

Bragg pulled up at Chicken’s Car Wash located off Exit 6 on Interstate 35. He pulled up in his SUV, paid twenty bucks for a basic clean, and drove down into the washer. Water splashed on his windshield and then soap spattered. He sat back in his seat staring past the machines to the crew of men who waited with buffing rags to dry the car and wash the windows. He glanced at Spike’s Texas state prison system photo and then to the trio of waiting men. Black hair, short, a dragon tattoo on his right arm made it easy to spot Spike, who stood apart from the other two. Spike tapped his foot and glanced around as if wishing away the time so he could get on with his life.

Spike had done time for forgery and embezzlement. There’d also been a drug charge, but the prosecutor had dropped it in exchange for the plea bargain on the other two crimes. No violent offenses, but he was the kind of guy you kept away from the till.

The machines hummed and whirred and finally rinsed the last of the dirt from this morning’s crime scene. He pulled up close to Spike who spit once to his right and then tugged the drying rag from his back pocket.

Bragg watched as the guy dried the windshield. He studied his hands and face, searching for signs he’d been in a fight. The medical examiner had called minutes ago and said he had found skin under Rory’s nails. Rory had scratched someone, likely his killer.

Spike didn’t appear to pay much attention to Bragg until he saw Bragg’s white hat resting on the front seat. Worry flowed through Spike, but he kept drying. When Spike finished, Bragg got out of his car and pulled a five from his pocket. He held it out to Spike who, eyes downcast, reached for the money.

“Spike Anders?” Bragg said.

Spike chewed his bottom lip as he quickly tucked the money in his pocket. “Tell my parole officer I’m working hard, and I ain’t been in any trouble.”

“How do you know your parole officer sent me?”

“You’re a Ranger. Last I checked Rangers don’t make social calls to ex-cons.”

“Point taken. I do have a couple of questions for you.”

Spike glanced over his shoulder as if assessing his exit strategy.

Smiling, Bragg slid his hand to the gun resting on his hip. “You’re not in trouble, Spike, but if you run we are gonna have a real issue. And I don’t want trouble. I want to get home to supper.”

Spike sniffed as he twisted the drying rag between his hands. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.” The car behind Bragg beeped, and he waved it toward another dryer.

Spike sighed. “You’re costing me tip money, Ranger.”

“Tell me about Rory Edwards,” he said in no particular rush.

The sound of the familiar name eased the stiffness in Spike’s shoulders. “I ain’t seen Rory in about a week.”

“Where’s the last place you saw him?”

“Here at the drive-through. He came by to show me how good he was doing. Said he’d been sober for two hundred days.”

“Did you believe him?”

“He looked good, for Rory, I mean. Clear-eyed and his hands didn’t shake. He wanted to show his brother he had cleaned up his act. Said there was a woman too who he needed to make amends with.”

“He say who the woman was?”

“No. Never gave a name.”

“Rory ever visit his brother?”

“I don’t know. Rory’s kind of afraid of his brother. His brother was good about bailing him out until about a year ago, and then all the help stopped.”

“Why’d it stop?”

“Their mom died. David told Rory he only helped him to keep the old lady happy. It troubled her Rory had turned out badly. To her dying breath, she prayed Rory would straighten out.” He reached in his back pocket and pulled a crumbled cigarette packet and a book of matches. He lit a cigarette and puffed. “Rory used his Mom’s guilt.”

“Used it?”

“He’d lean on his mother, who would go to David and make him cut Rory a check. This went on for years. Rory knew which buttons to push when it came to his mother. Rory wanted to find his brother and apologize.”

“Where’s Rory been the last year?”

Spike puffed on the cigarette. “Up in Houston. A halfway house or something similar.”

Dr. Watterson had told Bragg Rory’s body tested positive for high levels of alcohol and coke.

“I’d bet my last dollar Rory couldn’t stay sober long. It was still a struggle. Rory liked being hammered too much.” Spike glanced past Bragg and raised a hand. “Be right back to work, boss. I’m talking to a Texas Ranger.”

Bragg turned and saw a thin guy with a clipboard scowling at them. He held up a hand as if to say he recognized he was interrupting and then turned back to Spike. “And you have no information on the woman he wanted to see?”

“No idea. He wouldn’t say. But he kept looking at an old picture.”

Bragg pulled out his cell phone and showed Spike the image nailed to the tree. “That it?”

Spiked leaned in. “Kind of like it.”

Bragg replaced the phone. “Back to the last time you saw Rory.”

“He just said he weren’t gonna drink no more, and he’d gotten a line on a job. Seemed excited about it.”

“What kind of job?”

“He didn’t know exactly. Said it was farm work. Said he looked forward to working with his hands.”

“Where was the job?”

“If he told me, I don’t remember. I reminded him he owed me one hundred bucks, and he said not to worry. He’d pay me back when he got his first paycheck.”

“He didn’t look sad or upset?”

“No. The son of a bitch was on top of the world.” Smoke trailed out of Spike’s mouth and nose as he exhaled. “What’s he gotten himself into this time? Job turn out to be bogus? He get arrested for doing something he shouldn’t? I told him good jobs didn’t fall into the laps of guys like him.”

Bragg rested his hands on his hips. “Rory died.”

Spike paused, cigarette at his lips. “Rory’s dead?”

“He is.”

Spike took a deep drag. “Dumb son of a bitch. Someone knife him or shoot him?”

“He was hanging from a tree when I saw him this morning.”

Spike’s eyes widened. “Hanging? Like he was lynched?”

“Someone strung him up. Tried to make it look like suicide.”

“Shit.”

“He piss anyone off lately?”

“Rory pissed everyone off. He owed money to lots of people. Always made promises he couldn’t keep. He was a taker.”

“You ever hear anyone threaten him?”

“No more than usual. Like I said he could piss people off.”

“I heard he also runs with a guy named Dan.”

“Yeah, I met Dan. He’s okay. Saw him a month ago. He was driving to Seattle for a job. He’s a carpenter who does a lot of custom work. Said some computer bigwig was having shelves installed. Contractor needed extra help so he called Dan. I think they went to school together.”

“You’ve not seen Dan since?”

“Not for weeks.”

Bragg pulled in a breath. “Where was Rory living lately?”

“Rented a room in East Austin. Fifth Street. Don’t remember the address but there’s a taco place on the first floor with a blue chili in the window. One of the last things I told Rory was he smelled like tacos.”

“Anything else you can tell me that would help?”

“Naw.” He drew in a lungful of smoke. “Is there going to be a funeral?” Spike said.

“I don’t have any details. His brother would know.”

“Oh, I ain’t going. Not worth the hassle. Figure Rory wouldn’t have broken a sweat trying to make it to my funeral so I isn’t worried about his. ’Sides, I have to work.”

A horn honked behind them. The manager now flicked a pencil hard against his clipboard as if warning all he was losing patience.

Spike tossed the cigarette on the ground and stubbed it out with his booted foot. “Speaking of work, if I don’t get back, the boss is gonna blow a gasket. And if I don’t keep this job, I’ll lose my room at the halfway house.”

Bragg pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to Spike. “Keep me in mind if you think of something. Especially if you remember who might have hired Rory.”

Spike held the white card in callused dirty fingers before cramming it in his pocket. “Sure, Ranger, sure.”

Bragg got in his car and pulled out of the parking lot and wound his way back to I-35. The hood of his car glistened, but smudges streaked his front windshield. He checked his phone for messages and seeing none from Mitch decided to swing by the house just in case. After he checked on Mitch, he’d find Rory’s rented room.

Fifteen minutes later when he pulled into the driveway and saw Mitch’s black truck, relief washed away the lingering concern. He worried more and more for the kid with each new day.

He found Mitch sitting on the couch watching ESPN Classic. The game on television was from a decade ago. Detroit Lions versus the Dallas Cowboys. No doubt the boy had watched it with his mother. Sue had loved football.

Bragg tossed his hat on the entryway table. Guilt tugged at him. He and Mitch hadn’t had much time together. Memorial Day should have been a day they’d celebrated, but Mitch barely spoke all day and refused food. No grilled hamburgers. No fried chicken. No fanfare to celebrate the day honoring soldiers like Mitch.

Mitch had made terrible sacrifices he still couldn’t voice. And Bragg didn’t know how to coax the words from him.

“What say we go out and get a steak? There’s a great place a few blocks from here. T-bones an inch thick.” He could call Winchester and have him cover the search of Rory’s room. But as he figured a way to free himself, he braced for a no. Mitch didn’t do much lately.

Mitch’s gaze lingered on the television a beat. “Sure. I’m hungry.”

Well, damn. He was pretty sure he’d witnessed a miracle.

Bragg thought about changing into comfortable jeans and a T-shirt but didn’t want to risk Mitch’s changing his mind in the interim. “Let’s go.”

Mitch didn’t have a word to say while they drove the mile and a half to the restaurant, but Bragg didn’t mind. The kid had finally said yes, and they were going to share a meal.

He pulled into the parking lot of the steakhouse. It was jam-packed, no doubt full of other families not up for cooking on a hot evening. Most nights Bragg ate alone and accepted the waits as par for the course, but with Mitch with him he wanted the line to move quickly. He wanted them seated, breaking bread and maybe even talking.

They moved into the crowded restaurant lobby. The place was packed with families. Not the kind of hangout most single men frequented, but he liked being around the chatting kids, harried mothers and fathers. It gave him a glimpse into normal family life, an experience he and Sue had never had growing up.

Bragg walked up to the hostess. He’d seen her before. Sandy. A pretty little blonde, she wasn’t much older than Mitch. Last month, she’d seated him one night when Mitch had refused dinner. Seeing his badge, she had asked him about a boyfriend who was giving her trouble. She’d wanted advice. She struck him as a good kid, and he’d figured he’d help. He’d scribbled the guy’s name, made several calls, and found out he’d violated his parole. Long story short, the boyfriend was back in jail for another decade.

“Sandy,” Bragg said.

“Ranger Bragg.” A broad smile brightened tired eyes. “Good to see you.”

“You too. My nephew’s with me, and we’re looking to eat. What’s the wait?”

She picked up two menus. Her smile turned sly. “Your reservation was for six-thirty, and I’ve your table right over here.”

He grinned. “Thanks.”

She led them to a table in the back, seated them, and handed them menus. “Your waitress will be right up.”

“Appreciate it, Sandy.”

She tossed an admiring glance at Mitch and then smiled at Bragg. “No problem.”

Mitch met her gaze. “Thanks.”

Her grin broadened, and she returned back to her station crowded with waiting families.

Bragg scanned the menu. “The T-bone is good. Bread is great. It’s all good. Order whatever you want.”

He nodded. “T-bone sounds good.”

“Sure there isn’t something else you might want? Don’t order it on my account.” He wanted to fix the pain the kid carried, but didn’t know how. Best he could do now was offer him a great meal.

“T-bone is fine.”

Bragg resisted the urge to challenge and when the waitress came to the table he ordered two steaks with all the fixings plus bread. He waited until she returned with their soda order before asking, “How’d your day go?”

Mitch sipped on his soda straw. “Good.”

“What’s good mean?” he asked, not really expecting an answer.

After a moment’s silence, he said, “Got offered a job today.”

That tiny bit of news had him sitting straighter and leaning forward. However, he did his best to curb his enthusiasm and the rapid-fire questions begging to be asked. “That so? What’s the job?”

Before he could answer the waitress appeared with hot rolls and butter. More hungry for information than the bread, he waited as the boy tore into his bread and took a couple of bites.

Finally, Mitch said, “I’m not really sure. Farmhand, I think.”

“Farmhand.” It was a hard road to hoe working the land. He wanted his nephew to get an education and have the world open up to him. But that was the big picture. Right now he simply wanted the kid to talk, engage in life. Farmhand would suit fine.

“You know about farms. Mom said Grandpa had you riding a tractor at eight.”