Texas True (17 page)

There were plenty of shoe and tire tracks around the bog, left over from the earlier investigation. Still, to be safe, he found a broken mesquite branch and brushed out his tracks as he backed away from the scene. He hadn't forgotten the rattler. He gave it a wide berth, hoping there weren't more around.

Reaching his truck, he took a moment to wipe the gun with the damp cloth he'd brought along. On the way back to town, he would use the cloth to throw the gun into the long grass that grew along the roadside. No fingerprints. A clean getaway—and a clear conscience.

Stella would be pleased when he told her he'd done his job. But he planned to leave out one detail. Why bother to tell her he'd fired four bullets into a corpse?

 

The lawyer, J. Bob Tucker, had arrived precisely at 10:00 a.m., driving a black Lincoln Town Car and wearing a charcoal suit with a bolo tie and a Stetson. Tall and thin with a hooked nose and sparse gray hair, he was in his mid-sixties, the same age as Bull had been.

Since Tucker had requested a desk for the reading, Will had carried the dining room chairs into the ranch office, arranged them in a semicircle, and shifted the computer onto a side table. Bernice had offered to do the simple task, but he was through being a damned invalid. That morning, before first light, he'd gone out to the stable, saddled his horse, and ridden down to the lower pasture. His leg still ached, but not so much that he couldn't stand it. Pain or no pain, the old Will Tyler was back. But he would never take his body for granted again.

Now Will glanced down the row of chairs that faced the desk. Just six people were present for the reading of his father's will—Beau, Jasper, Bernice, Sky, Erin, and himself. Will was a trifle disappointed that Tori hadn't been included. But he should have known better. To Bull the three things that counted were blood, land, and loyalty. It was no surprise that, given the divorce, he'd excluded her from the family.

Sky had shown surprise at being asked to attend the reading. As far as Will knew, the man had never aspired to own anything but his truck, his clothes, his saddle, and his guns. His paychecks—and he was fairly paid—went directly to the bank. Unless he had some secret vice, he must have accumulated a tidy sum over the years, but he never spoke of it. Sky was as private as a lone cougar. Today, dressed in faded jeans and a denim work shirt with his dusty Stetson balanced on one knee, he appeared anxious to get this bother out of the way and go back to shoring up the paddock.

Erin edged closer to her father. Will encircled her shoulders with a comforting arm as the lawyer shuffled his papers on the desk. He could have spared his daughter this serious adult business, but she was growing up. It was time she understood her place in the family.

Tucker cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and began to read. “I, Virgil Tyler, being of sound mind . . .”

His voice droned on. Will and Beau were to be given equal shares in the ranch as long as both of them were involved in its management. If Beau chose to stay away, his share would be twenty-five percent. Clearly Bull had wanted both his sons on the land. Jasper and Bernice were to be given a modest income for life and a place to live for as long as they wished to stay. A trust fund, set aside for Erin, would pay for her college education. That left only Sky.

The lawyer cleared his throat again and moved on to the second page of the will.

“To Sky Fletcher, in recognition of his service to the ranch, I leave the contents of this envelope, to be opened in private, at his discretion.” The lawyer slid a sealed, plain manila envelope across the desk, toward Sky. “Here you are, Mr. Fletcher. The envelope was given to me by Mr. Tyler, in this condition.” Tucker scooped a few stray papers into his briefcase and closed it with a click. “Unless you have questions, that concludes my business here.”

The envelope was thin, as if it contained no more than a few sheets of paper. Without taking time to inspect it, Sky folded it and slid it into an inner pocket of his vest. He was one of the most self-contained men Will had ever known. If he was surprised, or even curious, he hid it well.

The lawyer stood to leave, and everyone else rose with him. Beau turned to Sky. “I hope you're going to tell us what's in that envelope,” he said. “When are you going to open it?”

Sky shook his dark head. “Not just yet. I'll know when the time is right.”

Will glanced past him. Jasper had paused in the doorway. His pale eyes appeared to be studying the three men, taking their measure in some secret way. As his gaze met Will's, he raised a grizzled eyebrow. Then he turned away, leaving Will to wonder what the old man had been thinking.

 

Sky walked back down the slope toward the paddock, where two of the men had been helping him build a new section of fence. His senses were acutely aware of everything around him—the smells of grass and manure, the whinny of a mare to her foal, the echoing ring of two hammers, striking almost in unison. Through the well-worn soles of his boots he could feel every rock and pebble, every rise and fall of ground. The sun beat down on the felted crown of his Stetson, warming his thick, black hair. Everything was much the same as it had been for years, yet not the same. Whatever was inside the mysterious envelope, he sensed it could have the power to change his life.

He remembered the windy November morning when he'd first wandered onto the ranch, a fifteen-year-old runaway, filthy and shivering in his thin denim jacket, his stomach a gnawing pit of hunger. The name Blanco Springs had been mentioned by his mother, so long ago that he no longer remembered the context, but it had to be a better place than where he'd come from. Maybe she even had folks there. He'd hitched rides from Oklahoma, stopping at farms and ranches on the way to chop wood or shovel out barns in exchange for a meal. The last ride, a truck delivering winter feed, had let him off here, and here he had found a home.

A plump, kind-looking woman had answered his knock at the back door. Too proud to beg, he'd asked for work. She'd taken one look and hauled him into the kitchen. “Go wash up,” she'd directed him. “I'll fix you some breakfast. Then you can talk to the boss about earning it.”

He'd devoured his way through three platefuls of bacon and eggs, two cups of coffee, and a small mountain of pancakes when a man walked into the kitchen—a terrifying man who looked as big as a barn door, with a bristling mustache and the fiercest, bluest eyes Sky had ever seen.

Sky had possessed the presence of mind to stand.

The man had looked him up and down. “Good. I like a boy with manners,” he'd boomed. “Bernice here says you're asking for a job. But you look too scrawny to do a man's work. How old are you, boy?”

“I'm fifteen, sir.” Sky had felt his knees shaking as he answered. “I'm stronger than I look. I'll work hard for as long as you'll have me.”

“Sit. Finish your breakfast.” The man had taken a seat on the opposite side of the table. Even sitting down, he'd loomed like John Wayne on steroids. “The name's Bull Tyler. Mr. Tyler to you. And I'm willing to give you a try at mucking stables—but only a try, mind you. First time I catch you slacking, you're done, hear?”

“Yes, Mr. Tyler. But I'm no slacker. And I get on with horses. You'll see.”

“Fine. What's your name, boy?”

“Sky. Sky Fletcher.”

The big man's expression had frozen, but only for an instant. “What about your folks? Can I expect them to show up looking for you?”

“No, sir. My mother died when I was three. Her brother's family in Oklahoma raised me. But I . . .” He'd paused, still feeling the sting of the welts on his back. “I don't belong there anymore.”

“And your father?”

He'd shrugged. “I never knew him—or anything about him except that he was white and no good.”

“Why no good?”

“Because he didn't give a damn about my mother or me. A good man would have taken care of us.”

“And what was your mother's name?”

“Marie. Marie Joslyn Fletcher.”

He rose. “Bernice, we should have some outgrown clothes from the boys. Get those rags off the lad and burn them. Then get him a bath and a toothbrush. When he's cleaned up, send him out to Jasper.” Without another word, he turned away and strode out of the kitchen.

Bernice had cried out when she saw the welts on Sky's back. “One thing I can promise,” she'd declared. “Wherever you came from, you're not going back!”

And so he never had, Sky reflected now. He'd stayed in touch with his cousins and even tried to help Lute, as he'd been helped. But he had no desire ever to see his uncle or aunt again.

Bull had been a fair employer over the years, even insisting that Sky take time off to finish high school. But he'd shown Sky no special attention or favoritism, let alone affection. Whatever place Sky held within the ranch family was the place he'd earned.

Which was why any sort of legacy was so unexpected.
In recognition of his service to the ranch . . .

The thin envelope felt like a leaden weight inside his vest. Whatever it held, Sky hoped it wasn't money. He had money of his own, saved over the years. Not that he had any desire to spend it. Everything he needed was right here on the ranch.

Perhaps he'd be better off not knowing what was in the envelope. Maybe he'd be smart to simply burn it and walk away.

But Sky knew better than to act rashly. Sometimes the wisest course of action was to do nothing. For now he would let the matter rest. The first group of the new colts would be arriving tomorrow. He would have his hands full all summer with their care and training. Whatever was in the envelope had waited this long. It could wait longer.

Glancing back toward the house, Sky saw that Jasper had come out to sit on the porch with the dog. Jasper had spent the past forty years on the ranch. He was as rich in secrets as the silent stone buttes and turrets below the caprock—and he hid those secrets almost as deeply.

He'd shown no curiosity about the contents of the envelope, almost as if he already knew what might be inside.

Checking the impulse to go and talk with him, Sky kept on walking. He would sit with the old man another day. Right now he had more pressing things to do.

 

The first of Sky's pupils had arrived. Beau stood with Erin and Jasper outside the fence, watching as twenty-two splendid young horses—yearlings and two-year-olds—thundered out of the long trailers and into the freedom of the grassy paddock.

“Look at that black . . . and, oh, that red one . . .” Erin was beside herself with excitement. Sky had given her the task of naming the new horses, and she took her job seriously. She'd brought a clipboard from the office and was already taking notes. Too bad Will wasn't here to share this with her, Beau reflected. But Will had driven up to the summer pasture above the caprock to spend the day checking on the cattle herds. He relished being back in action.

Beau knew enough about horseflesh to appreciate Sky's choices. All fillies and geldings, they were on the small side, solid, compact, and agile. Their eyes shone with alertness and intelligence. When word got around that Sky was training them, interest would be high among ranchers all over the state. Hopefully, when they came to auction, the bidding would be over the top.

Sky, on horseback, seemed to be everywhere at once. He sat his blue roan gelding as if he were part of the animal, guiding the horse more with his knees than with his hands. Back in the day, the Comanche had been the finest horsemen on the plains. Something in that ancient blood had trickled through the generations to pool richly into Sky Fletcher. There was no more logical explanation for his rare gift.

Leaning on the top rail of the fence, Beau watched the milling of bodies and colors—bay and roan, black, silver, paint, and buckskin, dun and claybank, in a kaleidoscope of grace and motion.

His cell phone rang. Seeing Natalie's name on the display, Beau walked away from the fence to take the call.

“What's up, gorgeous?” He was in high spirits today.

“Beau, are you alone?” She sounded like a terrified child.

“What is it?” he asked, alarmed. “Is it Slade? Has he threatened you again?”

“Yes . . . no . . . Listen to me, Beau! The sheriff and his deputy just left here. Slade's dead. Murdered on your ranch. And they're on their way to question you.”

I
t had to be a mistake.

That was Beau's first thought. Then reality slammed him like a runaway train. Slade Haskell was dead. And it wouldn't take a Sherlock Holmes to name the prime suspect in his murder.

“Are you all right, Natalie?” he asked, needing to be assured of that.

“I will be.” Her voice quivered slightly. “It's just the shock of it. You were at the ranch last night, weren't you? Will can verify that.”

“Call Tori,” he said, ignoring her questions. “Tell her everything the sheriff said.”

“Beau, I'm worried.”

“Call Tori,” he repeated. “Do it now. I have to go.”

Beau ended the call. He wanted to assure her everything would be all right, but he couldn't promise that—not until he knew more about what had happened.

He had added the sheriff 's number to his phone contacts after Jess Warner's murder. Walking back toward the house, he made the call.

“Axelrod,” the deep voice answered.

“Sheriff, this is Beau Tyler. Natalie just called me about Slade. She says you want to talk with me.”

“That's right.” Beau could hear the crackling sounds of a police radio in the background. “We're on our way to your place. We're about fifteen minutes out. Stay where you are.”

“I'd rather meet you.” Beau knew he was innocent. But a roomful of witnesses had seen his fight with Slade and heard his threat to kill the man if he hurt Natalie again. Now Slade had been found murdered on ranch property. It didn't look good.

Axelrod paused before he answered. “All right. Drive out and meet us on the road. We'll give you an escort back to town.”

Beau ended the call, an uneasiness churning in the pit of his stomach.

He caught Jasper's attention as he walked toward the vehicle shed. “I need to run into town,” he said. “I shouldn't be long.”

When Beau spotted the squad car, there was a second officer driving the tan Jeep Cherokee with the burly sheriff in the passenger seat. As Beau pulled off the road, the sheriff got out and climbed into Beau's truck. “We can talk on the way in,” he said, shifting in the seat to give Beau a view of the holstered pistol at his belt.

Beau started the engine and pulled onto the road, following the sheriff 's vehicle. “I can guess what you're thinking, but I didn't kill Slade,” he said. “I detested the man, but I'm not a murderer.”

“However, you are a trained killer,” Axelrod said.

“So are thousands of other combat veterans.”

“But you were a specialist. A sniper.”

“What's that got to do with anything? Was Haskell shot?”

“Since you're bound to hear it sooner or later, yes. He was shot several times at close range.”

“If I had killed him, which I didn't, one shot would have been enough. And it wouldn't have been up close.”

“That remains to be seen. We'll be testing your hands for gunshot residue of course.”

A curse escaped Beau's lips. “You'll find it. I was target shooting with my niece yesterday. Jasper was there—you can ask him if you have to.” Beau was hoping to clear this up without involving anybody else at the ranch, but the way things were looking, that might not be possible. He could sense the wheels turning in Axelrod's mind—how an explainable shooting event could be used to cover a criminal one.

“What can you tell me?” He steered the conversation away from himself. “Where was Slade? Who found him?”

“A Cessna pilot called it in. He spotted Haskell's flatbed by the bog, with the body on the ground.”

“Dumped, like the girl?”

“Nope.” Axelrod's eyes narrowed. “We found blood and casings at the scene. There's more, but we can cover that in interrogation.”

Interrogation.
The word sent a chill along Beau's nerves. Axelrod, it appeared, had already zeroed in on the most likely suspect. “Do I need a lawyer?” he asked.

The sheriff shrugged. “You're a smart man and you know the law. Up to you.”

Fifteen minutes later, Beau was seated in a room with a two-way mirror on one wall. The sheriff faced him across a narrow table. The process was one Beau had taken part in countless times. But he'd been the one asking the questions, not the one answering them. He willed himself to stay calm. He was innocent, he reminded himself. He had nothing to hide.

“Can you account for your whereabouts two nights ago between nine o'clock and midnight?” Axelrod sounded as if he'd memorized a script.

“I decided to go into town around nine. Stopped at the Blue Coyote for a few minutes, but it was crowded and I didn't stay. There was an NBA game on TV. Lakers, I think. Didn't pay much attention. After that I drove by Dr. Haskell's, but she wasn't there, so I drove home. Got there about ten-fifteen.”

“Can anyone verify that?”

“I didn't talk to anybody at the bar, but Will was awake when I came home.”

“Are you intimately involved with Natalie Haskell?”

The question jolted Beau. Despite his best intentions, his temper began to rise. He'd wanted to keep Natalie out of this, but that wasn't going to happen. “After Slade beat her up, she filed for divorce. He was set to stand trial for assault and would have most likely gone to jail. She'd have been free to remarry. Why would I want to kill him over Natalie?”

“I'll take that as a yes to my question.” Axelrod scratched the corner of his grizzled mustache. “Did you or did you not threaten to kill Slade Haskell if he bothered his wife again?”

“I did.” A drop of sweat trickled between Beau's shoulder blades, soaking into the back of his shirt. It was all circumstantial, but the sheriff was building a damned good case against him.

A manila envelope lay on the table. Opening the clasp, Axelrod slid out a sheet of creased, sweat-stained, blood-spattered white paper enclosed in a plastic sleeve. He passed it across the table to Beau. “Do you recognize this?”

Beau stared at the crudely phrased letter. His stomach contracted. He forced himself to speak calmly. “I've never seen it before. Where did you find it?”

“Crumpled inside Slade's shirt pocket. Isn't that your signature?”

“It's a damned good imitation. But I never signed anything like this and I sure as hell didn't write it.” As Beau studied the grammar-school printing, the awkward sentences, realization dawned. He was being framed—by a perfect storm of circumstances and an enemy clever enough to take advantage of them.

But who was it? And why?

“Did you dust this letter for fingerprints?” he asked, knowing his own prints couldn't possibly be on it.

“We tried. But the paper was too far gone. This isn't a blasted TV crime show. We do the best we can with what we've got, and sometimes it isn't much.” Axelrod slid the letter back into the envelope and fastened the clasp. “Must've been pretty rough over there in Iraq. I hear tell some men who've seen a lot of killing come back messed up in the head. They have spells where they think they're still in combat.” He glanced up, meeting Beau's eyes. “You ever have trouble that way?”

“It's called post-traumatic stress, and that's just one way it can manifest. I had a few issues after I left Iraq, but I was lucky enough to get help. Apart from some bad dreams, I've been fine for years.” Beau had answered similar questions openly in the past. He had no problem with answering this time . . . until a horrific thought struck him.

“Why would you ask me that question?” Beau kept his tone calm and neutral, but his pulse was surging.

“Just thinking, that's all.” Axelrod brushed a stray fly off his wrist. “We haven't had a murder in this county for years. Since you came home a few weeks ago, we've had two, both of them connected to your ranch. In my line of work, I've learned not to believe in coincidences.”

In the tense silence, the droning fly sounded as loud as the engine of a helicopter. Beau rose slowly to his feet. He could feel a vein throbbing in his temple, but he kept his voice level. “You've known me most of my life, Sheriff. You've known my family and you know our values. So far, you've given me nothing but conjecture. Unless you can offer solid proof—”

The door opened partway to admit the deputy. “Excuse me, Sheriff, but there's something out here you gotta see.”

Axelrod stood, shooting Beau a glare. “Sit down and stay put,” he ordered.

Given no choice, Beau sat and waited. This was a nightmare. He'd had nothing to do with Slade's death. But he'd had motive, means, opportunity, and no solid alibi. Anyone in the sheriff's place would've brought him in. Hellfire, he would have done it himself.

The sheriff was back, trailed this time by his deputy. “A road worker brought in a rifle, a thirty-thirty he found lying next to the highway. No prints, and we'll need to wait for the ballistics report, but the caliber matches the casings from the crime scene, as well as the bullets the medical examiner took out of Slade Haskell's body.

“A thirty-thirty?” Beau shook his head. “Anybody who hunts has a gun like that. There must be thousands of them in the county.”

“But not many with a serial number registered to Bull Tyler,” the sheriff said. “And none that would have Jasper Platt's name engraved on the stock. That rifle came from your ranch.”

Beau remembered the theft of Jasper's gun—a gift from Bull. But before he could explain, the door burst open and a tall, blond whirlwind of a woman swept in. “This stops right now!” Tori commanded. “Sheriff, I'm here to represent my client. You're not to question him unless I'm present.”

Axelrod rocked back on his heels, looking smug. “Tori, I'd say your timing's about right. Beau, here, is going to need you.” He unhooked the handcuffs from his belt. “Beau Tyler, I'm arresting you for the murder of Slade Haskell. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

 

Three nights later, Tori picked up a pineapple ham pizza and a couple of Diet Cokes from Burger Shack and drove to Natalie's house. It wasn't much of a meal, but she'd been too busy to cook, and she needed to see that her friend ate something. With Slade's body still in the county morgue and Beau charged with his murder, Natalie was barely holding herself together.

Natalie met her at the door dressed in jeans and a light blue T-shirt. Her hair was combed, her face freshly scrubbed, but her haunted eyes had purple-tinged shadows. Tori guessed she had slept little since the news broke.

“How's Beau?” Natalie asked, holding the door open so Tori could carry the pizza into the living room.

“He's been charged and had his bail hearing. Now he's out and looking for ways to prove he was framed. He asks about you. Every time I talk to him, the first thing out of his mouth is ‘How's Natalie?' ”

“I need to see him.” She closed the door and locked it.

“You mustn't. Beau's right about that. If this goes to trial, you could be called as a witness for the prosecution.”

Natalie slumped onto the sofa. “They'll twist my words to make Beau look guilty. The worst of it is, there's nothing I can say to help him. I was tending a sick mare the night Slade died. And if I have to tell the truth about our relationship, it'll only make things worse.” She shuddered.

“None of this is your fault,” Tori said. “And it's not like you to waste time beating yourself up. Do you have any idea who might have killed Slade? Could one of his employees have held a grudge against him?”

“I wouldn't know if they did. Slade never discussed his business with me—or his finances.” She pushed her thick hair back from her face. “I suppose that mess has fallen in my lap, too, and heaven knows when I'll have time to deal with it.”

Tori weighed the news she'd come to deliver and decided it could wait. “Did Slade have any family left?”

“Not living. His older brother died in a motorcycle wreck before we were married. And his parents have been gone for years. That's how Slade came to have the trucking business. It was his father's—but you'd remember that, growing up.”

Tori opened the pizza box and popped the tabs on the chilled soda cans. Lifting a pizza slice, she shoved it toward her friend. “Eat. You're running on empty and you're going to need your strength.”

She watched as Natalie nibbled at the melted cheese. Natalie was tougher than she looked, but even Tori didn't know how her friend would take the news she'd been holding back until now. Taking a deep breath, she plunged ahead.

“I spent some time researching in the county recorder's office today. Brace yourself for some disturbing news.” She paused to give Natalie a moment, but Natalie surprised her.

“For heaven's sake, Tori, my husband's just been murdered and Beau is under arrest. Whatever you're about to tell me, it can't be any worse than that.”

“All right. Here it is. Slade didn't own the trucking business. The property, along with the trucks and equipment, was taken over last year by Stella Rawlins.”

Natalie froze. A blob of cheese slid off the pizza and fell unheeded onto her jeans. “Stella Rawlins. That's the woman who owns the Blue Coyote.”

“As nearly as I can figure out, she loaned him money on the company, and when he couldn't pay her back, she took it over. But she kept him there to run the business.”

“And he never said a word to me.” A spark of the old fire flickered in Natalie's dark eyes. “Not about the loan, not about losing the business . . . nothing. I know we were having money troubles for a while, but Slade said everything would be all right, and it was. After that he always seemed to have money for things he wanted, like his new pickup.”

“I'm surprised you're not more upset about this,” Tori said.

“I figured Slade would get the trucking business in the divorce, so it's no loss. What bothers me more is that he kept it a secret, even from me. Why?” Natalie sighed and shrugged. “I don't suppose I'll ever know, will I?”