Far Gone (3 page)

The bartender filled a few beers and made her way over. She had leathery skin and lines around her mouth that signaled years of hard living under the West Texas sun. Jon had talked to her before but never bothered to introduce himself, and now he regretted it as she cleared away the half-finished Jack and Coke.

He smiled. “I didn’t catch her name, did you?”

“Don’t think she threw it.”

“You seen her in here before?”

“Nope.” Her tone was clipped, and she darted a glance at the clock. He figured she was jonesing for a cigarette. After a moment, she looked up at him and seemed to give in.

“She asked about Lost Creek Ranch, same as you did.”

Jon glanced at the door. He got up from his stool, even though he knew it was pointless to tail her. She’d be looking for it. He didn’t know much about her, but he knew that.

He left another twenty on the counter and maneuvered through the crowd. He stepped into the parking lot and saw a pair of red taillights fading down the highway.

He called Torres.

“You were right, she’s a badge.”

Curses filled Jon’s ear as he crossed the lot to his pickup. “I knew it!” Torres said. “The DEA’s fucking us again. Did you run the plate on her Cherokee?”

“I thought you had it.”

“Yeah, but something’s screwy. Must’ve got it down wrong. I can swing by the motel later, see if it’s there.”

Jon looked out at the horizon, at the vast, empty desert. No traffic, no houses. Just a twinkle of lights on some distant oil derricks.

“Don’t bother. She was heading for the interstate.”

For a moment, Torres said nothing. Then he said, “Well, that’s good, right? Maybe she’s going back where she came from.”

“Maybe,” Jon said, but he didn’t believe it.

Jon ended the call and pointed his truck toward Maverick. He checked the dash clock. Ten past midnight. Another day gone and nothing to show for it.

He trained his gaze on the endless yellow lines. Thirteen days. Less than two weeks left.

The clock in Jon’s head continued to tick.

chapter three

ANDREA SWUNG HER ARMS
over her head and gazed up at the clouds. She bent down to touch her toes, did a couple of deep lunges, and set off toward the lake.

She’d left her music behind so she could relish the sounds of traffic and construction and a city bustling with people. She’d actually missed the noise. She pounded down the sidewalk, passing commuters with umbrellas. She passed bus stops and coffee bars and bike shops with faded pictures of Lance Armstrong still on display. She passed aluminum trailers where the spicy scent of breakfast tacos wafted from the windows. Then she cut east at the lake, and as her feet hit gravel, she finally found her stride.

The running helped. Always had. Her breathing was a soundtrack, better and more vital than any music as she focused on the tree-lined path and picked up the pace. The trail was clear today—nearly empty, in fact. She glanced left toward the water, but the usual fleet of stand-up paddle-boarders wasn’t out.

The sprinkling became a drizzle as she ate up the trail. Her heart thrummed in her chest. She passed the statue of Stevie Ray Vaughan holding his guitar. She passed the dog park. She neared the Congress Avenue Bridge, home to the largest urban bat colony on the planet. The pungent odor of guano hit her, and she had a memory of her freckle-faced brother, age five, standing under the bridge in the black cape left over from Halloween. Gavin had idolized Batman, and their grandparents had taken them on a pilgrimage to Austin to witness the bats take flight over the city at sunset. Andrea had been twelve and thoroughly bored by it all as she’d sat on the hillside watching her brother zoom around pretending to be a superhero.

She pictured Gavin’s ruddy cheeks and the unruly red hair that had earned him nicknames throughout his life. Once again, she was worried about him. Her brother was a genius but could be amazingly dumb when it came to people.

Andrea quickened the pace. As the trail curved, she glanced up to see the concrete headquarters of the newspaper that had been running stories about her all week.

Her chest pinched. Her breathing grew shallow. She looked at the building and fought against the panic.

Don’t do it.

She focused on the path and tried to get her rhythm back. She had to get a grip. She was meeting the department shrink in less than two hours, and she needed to have her shit together.

And how are you sleeping, Andrea?

Fine.

Any nightmares? Insomnia?

No, nothing like that.

And have you experienced any flashbacks associated with the incident?

No.

What about sudden feelings of anger or hostility?

She’d had feelings like that most of her life, but she knew the answers.
No, no, no.
She might throw in an occasional
yes
to make it seem like she was being honest, but no way was she letting some shrink climb inside her head.

It was tougher to lie to Nathan.

He’d had that look on his face when he’d come over the other night. Nathan knew. He’d been through an officer-involved shooting, and he
knew
, which was why they’d assigned him to her. He was supposed to help her. But she didn’t want his help. She didn’t want anything from anyone, even though for days, she’d felt this constant low-grade anxiety, as if she was holding on to something by her fingernails, but she didn’t know what.

Andrea veered right, away from the newspaper building, prompting a honk from a driver. She cut across a parking lot and turned southbound on a busy street.

For a while, she ran without thinking. Rain soaked her T-shirt. It seeped into her shoes, making her socks squish with every stride. She wove through residential streets, twisting and winding as she racked up mile after mile at a too-fast pace for the weather conditions. When her thighs burned and her lungs were about to explode, she looked up and spotted her apartment building. She set her sights on it and poured on the speed.

She stopped at the bank of mailboxes and gulped down air. Arching back, she let the rain pelt her face. Six miles, maybe seven. She bent over to flatten her palms on the cold pavement, letting the drizzle soak her back as thoughts flooded in to fill the vacuum. She thought of Gavin and Dillon and her grandparents. She thought of her mother. She thought of the dozens of things she’d failed to do in her life and the handful of things she’d done right.

A pair of shiny black wingtips stepped into her field of view, and she jerked upright.

“Detective Finch.”

He wore a suit and tie. Jon something . . . who clearly wasn’t an ICE agent. Her gaze dropped to the badge clipped to his belt.

FBI.

Water glistened on his dark hair. His broad shoulders were damp but not all of him, which meant he hadn’t been standing out here long. His eyes were shielded by silver aviators, so she couldn’t see his expression, just her own look of wariness reflected back at her.

“You have a minute, Detective?”

It was more of an order than a question. She glanced around the lot again but didn’t see any sign of the reporters who’d been hounding her for days.

She turned and faced him. “I knew you weren’t ICE.”

The side of his mouth curved slightly, but he didn’t smile.

“Is your name really Jon?”

“Special Agent Jon North. How about we find a place to talk?”

Andrea glanced at her apartment window. She didn’t like the idea of taking him up there—not because he was six-two and armed and a virtual stranger but because she assumed he was nosy.

But if she took him to a coffee shop, they might get approached by a reporter.

“Third floor, no elevator,” she said.

He gestured toward the stairs with a politeness that fit the suit. “After you.”

She trekked up the steps, untying the key from the drawstring of her sweatpants as she went. She opened her door and made a direct line to the breakfast table covered in paperwork.

“Coffee’s still on if you want some.”

She scooped the papers into her arms and headed to the bedroom, where she dumped everything on the dresser. Then she ducked into her closet and changed into a dry T-shirt before closing her bedroom door and rejoining him in the kitchen. He stood beside the breakfast bar, where she’d left her laptop out. Fortunately, it was off.

She leaned back against the opposite counter and folded her arms over her chest. “So what can I do for you, Mr. North?”

The sunglasses had disappeared, and he was watching her now with those hazel eyes she remembered from the bar. His hands were tucked casually into his pants pockets, putting his badge and gun on display. She wondered if he thought she’d be intimidated. His dark hair was thick, no gray. She put him at thirty-five, give or take, but what he lacked in years he made up for with a relaxed confidence.

“You been back long?” he asked.

“Two nights.”

He nodded absently, and she could tell this wasn’t news. She watched him taking in details as he glanced around her apartment: her cell phone charging on the counter, the droopy yellow plant in the corner, the unopened mail.

Nosy, just as she’d expected.

“Mind if I . . . ?” He tipped his head toward the coffeepot.

She crossed the kitchen and took a mug down from the cabinet. It was green, with a yellow John Deere logo on it, and she filled it to the brim. He didn’t strike her as the cream-and-sugar type.

He accepted the coffee, took a sip, and put it down beside last night’s dishes.

“You didn’t mention you’re a cop,” he said.

“You didn’t ask.”

“You didn’t mention your name, either.”

“I don’t usually give out my name in bars.”

He smiled. “I don’t blame you.”

Her heart did a little flutter—something about his smile. Or maybe her system was responding to having an attractive man in her kitchen.

“How’d you find me?” she asked.

“Ran your license plate.”

“Try again,” she said. She’d borrowed that tag from the ’86 Chevy Celebrity her grandfather kept under a tarp in his garage.

He watched her silently until she started to get irritated. “I need to know about your interest in Shay Hardin,” he said.

“What interest?”

His eyes didn’t change—they stayed locked on hers. “You interviewed no fewer than twelve people about him over the course of three days,” he said.

“Interviewed?”

“Asked questions about him.”

“So what? I can ask questions about whatever I want. It’s none of your business.”

He rested his hands on the countertop. “Actually, it is. My team’s been conducting an undercover investigation of Hardin for the past four months.”

She didn’t say anything. She was aware of Hardin’s background—he’d been arrested a few times on minor charges, mostly fighting in bars, but he’d never been convicted of anything. She was aware that he lived with some friends, including her brother, at Lost Creek Ranch outside Maverick. She was
not
aware until this moment that he was the subject of an FBI investigation.

She watched the agent’s face and wondered if he knew that her brother had recently joined Hardin’s little commune. Gavin’s previous stint there had lasted an entire summer and would have been longer if Andrea hadn’t found him and persuaded him to go back to school.

She adjusted her strategy now. If she stonewalled, he’d probably get more interested, not less.

“So what’s your question, exactly?”

“I want to know why an Austin homicide detective is poking around my suspect,” he said. “I don’t need him getting spooked.”

Andrea reached for the cabinet beside him and took down a glass. She filled it with water from the tap and took a long sip as North watched her.

She’d known right away that he didn’t fit the profile of an ICE agent. Those guys tended to be bulkier and rougher around the edges. The ones in West Texas spent a lot of time hotshotting around the desert in their 4x4s.

North had the height. And he’d clearly spent time outdoors recently. But he looked different from the typical border cowboy. He seemed smoother, smarter. And he looked comfortable in a suit.

He was still watching her steadily, waiting for an answer.

“It’s not police-related,” she told him. “My interest is personal.”

His brow furrowed. “You two have a history?”

“Something like that.”

He seemed surprised. And maybe a little disappointed.

But it wasn’t a bad concept. If he thought she had a relationship with Shay Hardin, that kept her brother out of it.

“So what did he say? I assume you tried to contact him while you were out there?”

“He wasn’t really communicative,” she said vaguely. “We’re not on good terms.”

“Any chance you could change that?”

“Doubtful.” And that was the truth. “I tried to reach out to him, and I got nowhere.”

“Did you visit the ranch?”

“Didn’t get past the gate.”

“Did you try calling him?”

“No luck.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I hear he keeps to himself now. That’s what everyone in town says.”

North’s look was intent, and the ball of dread that had been sitting in her stomach for the last five days grew heavier. Andrea had never liked Hardin. What was he mixed up in? And what was Gavin mixed up in by association?

“What’s this about, anyway?” she asked. “Why’s he under investigation?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

She glared at him across the kitchen. Typical fed. Swoop in wanting a quid pro quo with none of the quid.

He stepped forward and gazed down at her. She noticed his eyes again and remembered how they’d looked back at the bar. She’d seen something else in his expression then, but right now he was all business. “A little friendly advice.”

She glared harder.

“Leave Shay Hardin alone. I can’t think of an easier way to ruin a promising career.”

What the hell did
that
mean? She got the distinct impression he was taking a jab at her.