Body Heat (32 page)

Slowing so abruptly the truck shuddered, he turned into the narrow, dirt drive. His tires spun rock and gravel and his back end fishtailed, but he got the truck under control. Then he rolled down his window and crept along, taking
in everything he could see in the darkness, everything he could hear on the quiet night air.

When he emerged from the trees that had initially blocked his view of the house, he saw that the Hummer wasn't parked in the clearing. But, oddly enough, Charlie's white pickup wasn't there, either. Which made no sense. How could his pickup have been photographed a few days earlier if Charlie had taken it to visit his daughter in Yuma? Either he'd left it behind or he hadn't, and this made it appear that he hadn't.

Shoving his gun into his waistband, Rod stepped out. Moonlight fell gently on the front lawn, which smelled of freshly mowed grass. Someone was keeping up with the watering, too. And yet, even with the cicadas humming, the place had a lonely, shut-up feeling….

What was going on? Had Sophia been here? If so, where was she now? There was no sign of her.

Rod strode to the front door and rang the bell. He didn't give a damn how late it was. If Charlie was home, he wanted to talk to him, to see if he'd heard from Sophia and to ask why he hadn't been returning her calls, which was the reason she'd come out here in the first place.

His summons brought no response. “You're not here,” he muttered. “I can tell you're gone, and you've been gone for a while.”

He tried the door, found it locked and went around to the back. Everything was locked up tight. Short of breaking a window, there was no way to get in, no way to see if anything strange was going on. Except…

Rod looked more carefully. There was a small cut in the screen of the porch. Was it merely a coincidence that it was so close to the door handle?

He didn't believe in coincidence. Sliding his hand
inside, he flipped the lever that would let him in, and found the back door slightly ajar, as if whoever had gone out the last time hadn't bothered to latch it. Was that person Sophia? If not, Rod thought the open door was almost as strange as the missing truck. What if whoever had been here wasn't Charlie
or
Sophia?

The pent-up heat inside the house hit Rod like the blast from an oven. In this part of the country, homes that were closed up during the summer, without a few open windows to allow for an exchange of air, could be sweltering. This one certainly was—further evidence that Charlie was out of town for an extended period. No one could tolerate living in a place this hot.

Standing in the mudroom, Rod listened to the settling noises of the old house. A toilet was running in back, but that was about it. No wind buffeted the trees. No animals scurried about, padded around, meowed or barked. A kibble bowl and a neatly folded towel suggested that Charlie owned a pet, probably a dog, but he must've taken the animal with him.

Confident that he was as alone as he'd assumed when he entered, Rod stepped into a pitch-black room. All the blinds had been drawn to keep out the sun. Flipping the closest switch, he found himself in a clean but dated kitchen. The cupboards, the table and chairs, the clock and pictures, were simple, like their aging owner, but had most likely been purchased by Charlie's wife. She'd died when Rod was only ten or thereabouts, so the old guy had been on his own for quite a while. He didn't appear to have improved the place since then, but he was clearly keeping up with indoor as well as outdoor maintenance.

Spotting a calendar hanging above a small built-in desk next to the fridge, Rod walked over. The month was
current, but a line had been drawn through the past week and extended for three more days. Above that line, a shaky hand had written Sumpter Family Reunion.

At least Rod now understood why Charlie hadn't responded to the message Sophia had left for him at his daughter's house. The daughter wasn't at home, either. They were probably off camping somewhere, or boating at Lake Powell.

Rod checked his phone to make sure he hadn't missed another call from Sophia, saw that he hadn't and moved on to the living room. But, once again, it was too dark to see. He'd just begun searching for a lamp when headlights hit the front window and the sound of a motor told him he had company.

Hoping Sophia had finally shown up, he peeked out. But it wasn't the Hummer. Someone was driving the white truck he'd seen in the photos.

T
he ambulance that screamed through town gave Gary hope. Planning to move his records for the smuggling enterprise to a new location, a more secure location, he'd been hastily packing all the files and ledgers into boxes. Now he stopped. That siren signaled good news. It had to be on its way to pick up Sophia and Rod, didn't it? With any luck, they were both dead. But if Leonard had taken care of them as promised, why hadn't he called?

Cursing Taylor for leaving him on tenterhooks, Gary paced in the front of his store, where he could see the street. Maybe Leonard was watching the action, making sure it all went as it should. Or maybe he was having difficulty getting to a place where he felt comfortable talking. Either scenario was possible, but Gary was more inclined to believe Taylor was relishing the fact that he had him at a disadvantage.

“Bastard.” Unable to wait any longer, he called Leonard's cell. It rang several times before transferring to voice mail. What was going on? What was happening? He
hated
not knowing.

More agitated by the second, he was about to try again, when Leonard called him. “Finally,” he muttered, and punched the talk button. “Did you do it? Is it done?”

Whoever answered wasn't Leonard. At first, Gary couldn't place him. He was talking too low. But then he realized it was Sheriff Cooper. “Leonard's dead.”

“
What?
What about Sophia? And Rod?”

“Sophia shot Leonard. Scene's a mess. I don't know where Rod is.”

“Where can I find them?” Leonard didn't matter, except that he hadn't done his job. All Gary cared about was making sure Sophia and Rod couldn't ruin him and the business he'd worked so hard to build.

“I can't talk. I'm going to do you a favor and destroy this phone. And if the phone records are requested in an investigation, I'll do my best to switch them out. That'll sever any obvious tie you have to Leonard, make it look as if he's the only one to blame for what happened here. If you have any records of any amounts you've ever paid me, destroy them immediately,” he said, and hung up.

Gary's left arm began to tingle and the pressure he'd been feeling in his chest grew worse, until it felt as if he had an elephant sitting on him. Afraid he might be having a heart attack, he gingerly lowered himself to the floor and stretched out on his back.
Take it easy. You're gonna be okay. Deep breaths. That's it. It's not over. You'll find them. You'll save this thing yet.

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 fucking 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.

 

As soon as Sophia pulled into the parking lot at the Boot and Spur, the manager walked out to meet her. He asked if she was Sophia St. Claire, then said that Rod had been trying to reach her. Surprised to hear he wasn't in the cabin, she tried to call him again. But he didn't answer.

Waiting in cabin thirteen, she stared out the window at the empty parking lot, as if she expected Bruce to drop him off at any moment, and wondered what to do next. She'd been feeling so relieved when she left Douglas. The doctors had managed to stabilize Starkey, a miracle in itself. She'd even spoken to him and laughed when the first thing he told her was that his acquaintance who dealt in silencers claimed he hadn't sold any to a guy from Bordertown. She couldn't believe that was on his mind at a time like this. It hadn't been for long. His thoughts soon shifted to Rafe, who wasn't pleased to be in his grandmother's care, but had chosen to stay with her at the motel beside the hospital so he'd be close to his dad. Sophia had thought the drama was over for the night, that she'd be able to go to the Boot and Spur and curl up with Rod to get some much-needed rest.

Now she was worried all over again; only this time she was worried about Rod.

Where was he? It was nearly three-thirty in the morning. Was he still with Bruce? If so, she thought maybe she shouldn't keep trying to get through to him. Maybe they were having the heart-to-heart they should've had long ago.

But it was also possible that something else had come up.

Steeling her nerve, she called Bruce's house.

Edna answered. “Hello?”

Bruce's wife sounded sick, fragile. And it was no wonder. She'd lost Stuart today. Sophia felt like the most callous person in the world for disturbing her in her grief, and at such a late hour, but she had to find Rod.

Tightening her grip on the phone, she overcame her reluctance to identify herself. “Edna, this is Sophia
St. Claire. I'm terribly sorry to bother you, but…could I speak to Bruce?”

“Do you know what time it is?” she snapped.

“I do. I apologize profusely. But this is important.”

“Not more important than letting my poor husband get some sleep. Call back in the morning if you want to talk to him.”

A dial tone hummed in her ear. But Sophia couldn't leave it at that. She called right back. Although Edna had good reason to be angry, Sophia guessed the chill she'd encountered was at least partly attributable to the rumors around town. Rod was Edna's biggest enemy, and Sophia was Rod's biggest ally. It didn't help that Sophia had rebuffed Stuart so many times over the past two years—and then gotten involved with his half brother.

The phone rang and rang. Finally Edna answered again. “What are you doing calling here? Why won't you leave us alone?”

Sophia fortified herself against Edna's anger. “I need to talk to Bruce. I'll drive out there if I have to. This is police business.” To a degree, it was. After what they'd discovered at the feed store, Rod possessed information that put his life in danger. But Sophia was terrified about his safety for personal reasons, too; there was no escaping or denying that.

“Meaning you've arrested the person who killed my son?” she challenged.

“Meaning I'm doing my best to track down your son's killer and to keep everyone else safe at the same time.”

“You mean everyone like
Rod.
”

“He deserves the same consideration as anyone else.”

“He doesn't deserve
anything.
He—”

Someone in the background interrupted Edna as her
voice crescendoed. Then the phone changed hands and Bruce came on the line. “Who is this?”

Sophia sighed in relief. “It's Chief St. Claire. I can't find Rod, and I'm worried. Do you know where he is?”

“No. He left here at least an hour ago.”

“How? I've got his Hummer.”

“I lent him a pickup, said I'd send someone for it in the morning.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“I assumed he was going to the Boot and Spur. That's where he's staying, isn't it?”

“I'm at the cabin now. The manager tells me he hasn't been here all night.”

“Then I don't know what to think, except…”

“Except what?”

“He might've gone out to Charlie Sumpter's.”

“Thanks. I'll check.” She grabbed Rod's car keys as she ran out the door. But as soon as she glanced up, she realized she couldn't go anywhere. There was another car in the lot. Her stepfather's pearl-colored Escalade was blocking her in.

“Oh, God…” Hoping to return to the cabin, where she could lock the door, she turned—and ran right into him.

“There you are. How 'bout giving Daddy a kiss?” he murmured and licked her cheek as he covered her mouth with one hand and dragged her between the cabins, out of sight of the office and the parking lot.