The Bequest (29 page)

But then there was Adam, and she understood that a lifetime was a
long time not to see your son.
She shook her head and flicked the reins, turning Gretel back up the
slope to the ridgeline that led to Chad’s ranch.
Chad.
The only person who had always believed in her, who had always
stood beside her. The only person she could trust and depend on. She had
dragged him into the middle of her problems years ago, and now she had
dragged him into her current spate of problems. But unlike before, her
current problems could bite him if he stood too close to her. He was still
her friend, and she had put him in harm’s way. If whoever was trying to
kill her—and had already killed two people close to her and tried to kill
another—found Chad, he, too, might be in danger.
She checked her watch; it was nearly six. She was shocked to realize
she had been riding for nearly three hours. She dug her heels into Gretel’s
side and turned the horse toward the barn.

Chad pressed the trigger on the chainsaw and started on the next row of
cedars, right where he had left off this morning when Peggy arrived.
Riding horses cleared his head, but so did manual labor in the Texas sun.
There was just something about sweat and dirt that made a Texan feel
really alive and on top of his game. He’d had a lot to think about ever
since Peggy showed up. He was having a hard time putting all the pieces
together, but one thing he did know: Peggy was in far worse trouble than
before.

He wondered, and worried, how things might have gone with her
mom. He felt a little guilty about calling Mary behind Peggy’s back, but he
knew Peggy never would have agreed if he had suggested it. At the same
time, he knew that Peggy
needed
to see and talk to her, just as much as
Mary needed to see and talk to Peggy. Sometimes you had to make
decisions for other people, even if it might make them mad. This was one
of those times. His biggest worry, though, was that Tom might have found
out about the meeting, or simply shown up by accident. Mary had told
him that Tom rarely went to Adam’s gravesite, but it would just be
Peggy’s continued misfortune if Tom decided that today was the day for a
visit.

In his peripheral vision, he saw movement on the dirt road that ran
along the fence line. He felt an odd sense of déjà vu. It was just like when
he had seen Peggy arrive this morning, and, just as then, he wasn’t
expecting company. He killed the chainsaw, removed his ear muffs and
goggles, wiped sweat from his eyes, and squinted. It looked like a pick-up
truck, a newer model, kicking up dust. Clearly heading his way.

He crossed the meadow to his truck, grabbed a cup from the front
seat, a rifle from the back, and retreated to the truck bed. He laid the rifle
inside—the same rifle he had given Teri before their ride, who had
apparently just tossed it into the hay behind his back as they rode from the
barn. He poured himself a cup of water from a large jug on the edge of the
tailgate and waited.

The pickup turned into the opening in the fence and pulled to a stop
about twenty feet away. Brand new, oversized Dodge, midnight blue in
color, covered in dust. Three doors opened, three men stepped out. One
looked local—faded jeans and worn boots; one looked like a drugstore
cowboy—new duds sharply creased and alligator boots; and one looked
like he was on his way to a formal dinner. He had loosened his tie, but
even the pre-planned casual look couldn’t disguise the cut of the cloth of
his suit or the aura of entitlement that engulfed him.

One more thing stood out about him: absolutely dead eyes.
“Can I help you fellows?” Chad asked.
“I think we’re lost,” the well-dressed one said.
“That goes without saying. You’re on private property, and you had

to drive through two gates just to get here.”
The three men spread out, creating a triangle around Chad’s truck.
The well-dressed man faced him across the bed of the truck; the drugstore
cowboy flanked to the rear, the local to the front. Chad longed for a wall
at his back.
“Where you headed?” Chad asked.
“See, that’s just it,” the well-dressed one said. “We’re not real sure
where we’re headed. We’re looking for someone.”
“And who might that be?” But Chad thought he already knew.
“We’re looking for a lawyer turned veterinarian named...” He turned
to the local. “What was his name again?”
“Chad Palmer,” the local said.
“Yeah, Chad Palmer. You wouldn’t happen to know where he is,
would you?”
Chad reached over and put his right hand on the stock of the rifle,
hopefully hidden behind the water jug. “Don’t know where Mr. Palmer
is.”
“This is his ranch, isn’t it?”
“I’m his foreman.”
“Strange,” the well-dressed one said. He reached inside his coat
pocket and extracted a folded sheet of paper. He unfolded it and held it
up: a photocopy of a newspaper article, with a photo under the headline.
Chad knew who was in the photo. After all, he had been there at the time.
It was the one photo that made it into the local paper before he had been
able to kill the story.
“You look an awful lot like the man in this picture,” the well-dressed
man said. “A picture from Peggy Tucker’s manslaughter trial.”
Chad picked up the rifle from the truck bed and held it across his
folded arms. “Like I said, this is private property. You’re trespassing.”
“Not if you invite us to stay.”
“I’m not feeling very neighborly. I need to ask you to leave.”
“I’ve always heard that Texans were supposed to be friendly.” The
well-dressed man smiled, but it stopped short of his cold eyes.
“Have you also heard, ‘Don’t mess with Texas’?” Chad pulled his lips
back and bared his teeth in an attempt to mirror the well-dressed man’s
mirthless smile.
“So we seem to have reached a stalemate,” the well-dressed man said.
In his peripheral vision, Chad saw the other two men slowly moving
wider, an obvious flanking maneuver. He raised the rifle, still holding it
across his folded arm, barrel now pointed directly at the drugstore
cowboy.
“Not another step,” he said. The two men stopped then looked to the
well-dressed man, as if awaiting instructions. He was clearly the alpha
dog.
“You’re good where you are,” the well-dressed man said.
Chad saw that both of them stood in exactly the same position, with
their feet shoulder-width apart, hands at their side. He’d seen enough TV
westerns and cowboy movies to recognize the quick draw stance. But they
had no gun belts hanging low at their hips or guns visible by their hands.
That could only mean that the guns were tucked into the backs of their
jeans. He did a quick calculation. If he shot first, it would likely take at
least two seconds for the other to swing a hand around back, grab the
weapon, and bring it around front. Lee Harvey Oswald got off three shots
in about eight seconds with a bolt action rifle from the schoolbook
depository in Dallas. Surely Chad could get off two, including chambering
a second round as he swung the barrel of his rifle from one gunman to the
other, in two to three seconds, especially since he’d have the element of
surprise with the first shot.
Assuming, of course, his opponents didn’t shoot first.
If that
happened, he could still get off his first shot, provided he could see the
exact moment of hand movement. Even a fraction of a second delay could
make the difference. But whether he could hit both targets under those
circumstances was another question altogether.
The real wild card, of course, was the well-dressed man. Was he
armed? Chad couldn’t tell. He wasn’t in the gunfighter stance, and there
was no detectable bulge under his coat. But he was “the guy.” No question
about that. Chad needed to keep that man occupied, but he didn’t need to
focus on him so much as to miss movement by his cronies.
“What do you want?” Chad asked.
“I need to talk to Teri Squire,” the well-dressed man said.
“The actress?”
“None other than.” The well-dressed man held up the photocopy of
the article again. “I think she used to go by Peggy Tucker.”
“Maybe you haven’t noticed, but this is Texas. I think you’ve
wandered about thirteen hundred miles too far east. There are no movie
stars here.”
“If she’s not here, she will be soon enough.”
“Then leave me your card, and I’ll have my people call your people
when she shows up. We’ll do lunch.”
There was that smile again from the well-dressed man. “I think
maybe we’ll wait.”

Teri held the reins loosely, giving Gretel her head. The horse knew
exactly where to go, hoping a bag of oats awaited her in the barn. Teri
hoped a sandwich and cold lemonade awaited her, as well.

She dismounted and led Gretel into the barn, where Hansel stared at
her while he munched on oats. Gretel whinnied, almost as if to say,
“Where’s mine?”

Teri glanced toward the haystack where she had tossed the rifle
earlier, but it wasn’t there. She looked at the gun cabinet; not there,
either. Chad must have it. She had just reached beneath Gretel’s belly to
loosen the cinch on the saddle when she heard the first gunshot.
The man to Chad’s right, the local, seemed to be moving, continuing the
flanking motion. Chad swung the rifle around to point it at him.

It was just a brief moment of inattention, but the flanking movement
diverted Chad. The rhinestone cowboy took that lapse as an opportunity
to pull his gun from the back of his belt and fire.

Chad felt a searing pain as the bullet tore into his left shoulder. He
spun, staggered to regain his footing, and pulled the trigger on the rifle.
The local dove to his right, hit the ground, and rolled. The bullet whizzed
harmlessly by. Chad swung the rifle around, jacked in another round, and
squeezed off another shot.

The drugstore cowboy hadn’t moved, as if proud of himself for his
first shot, and feeling bulletproof as a result of his prowess. Chad’s second
shot caught him in the throat. His head snapped back and he threw his
arms out to the side, the gun flying from his hand as he staggered
backward two steps and then crumpled to the ground.

The
three
survivors
moved at once, as if in a
synchronized
choreography team.
The
well-dressed man lunged
for the
gun the
drugstore cowboy tossed his way. The local scrambled for cover behind
the Dodge, and Chad dove into the driver’s side of his own truck. His left
arm was useless, blood spilling from his shoulder and streaming down his
side. The keys were still in the ignition. He cranked the engine, ducked
beneath the dash as he shifted into reverse, and floored the accelerator.
The truck jumped backward as a hail of gunfire erupted from the front.

The trunk lurched down a slight slope toward the trees where Chad
had been felling cedars just before the arrival of the gunmen. He could
hear, and even feel, the bullets slamming into the grill of his truck. The
windshield shattered and glass rained on his head. He stayed low, hoping
the engine block would provide enough of a shield to last until he could
reach the trees.

Suddenly the truck slammed to a stop, its bed crunched against a
large oak tree. End of the line. Chad grabbed the rifle and a nearly-empty
box of bullets, slid across the seat to the passenger side, then opened the
door and rolled out. He got to his feet and ran into the trees.
Teri whipped the reins, her heels clutching Gretel’s side, and rode full
force up the dirt road to the meadow, then suddenly pulled up short at the
sight. Chad’s truck was butted up against a tree at the edge of the woods.
A second pickup, a newer model, pulled up next to Chad’s and two men
got out. She didn’t recognize the man who emerged from the driver’s
side, but even at this distance she recognized the passenger: Doug Bozarth.

Both men appeared to be carrying guns. They ran into the trees.
They hadn’t seen her, their attention riveted on the woods beyond
Chad’s truck. Chad had obviously escaped, at least momentarily, and
ducked into the woods. She hoped it was he who had retrieved her rifle
from the hay and that he had it with him. She debated whether to return to
the house for another weapon, but she didn’t know if he had any other
guns there. With his love of animals, he never hunted so, as far as she
knew, he had no reason to own any weapons. After all, the lone occupant
of his gun cabinet in the barn had been her rifle, and he hadn’t even kept
that in the house.
She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and pushed 9-1-1. She
held it to her ear and listened, but heard nothing. Not surprising, given
the relative isolation of the ranch. She knew there was a signal at the
house; after all, Detective Swafford had called her there. Again, she
debated whether to head back to the house to call for help and to search
for a gun, but she didn’t know how much time she had. She had no idea
how much of a lead Chad had on his pursuers, but he knew his property
intimately, including a few creek beds, bluffs, and even a dry cave. He
could probably evade his pursuers, one of whom was a city slicker,
without too much trouble. That meant she probably had time to go call for
help.
It seemed like minutes, but in actuality she knew all these thoughts
had coursed through her mind in a matter of seconds. But still, time was of
the essence. She started to turn Gretel to return to the house when, up
ahead, she saw a lump on the ground near the spot where Chad’s truck
had been parked that morning when she arrived. She figured he had likely
done so again, so whatever had happened, it had started there. She headed
that way.
Blood pounded in her ears as she drew nearer. The lump took on a
distinct shape. It was a man lying on his back, arms outstretched. Up
close, she could clearly see that he was dead, blood streaming from his
throat. So Chad was definitely armed.
She looked downhill toward the spot where Chad’s truck had been
parked. The chainsaw lay on its side, silent. Next to it, tire tracks, and a
dark splotch on the grass and dirt nearby. She dismounted and ran to the
spot. Her heart seemed to stop as she looked down. Blood.
She rushed back to Gretel and jumped on her back. She held Gretel
in a sprint across the meadow to the two trucks at the edge of the woods.
She jumped off and landed on her feet in a dead run. She rushed to
Chad’s truck, its engine quiet. Blood pooled on the floorboard on the
driver’s side and was smeared along the inside of the door. It stained the
seat in a swiping motion toward the passenger door, which was open.
Looked like a lot of blood to her, but at least Chad was on the move. The
question was how fast and how far he could move in the condition he was
in. And how far ahead of his pursuers was he?
She checked the interior of the other truck, not knowing what she
might find. A gun, maybe. The dead man wasn’t armed, but the two who
had entered the woods were. If they had each been armed initially, then
one gun was unaccounted for. Or maybe Bozarth now had the dead guy’s
gun.
She checked the glove compartment, under the seat, in the rear seat.
The only thing of interest was the keys in the ignition. She pocketed those.
If nothing else, it might hinder their escape.
She went back to Chad’s truck and checked it again. Nothing but
tools in the back. Spare chains for the chainsaw, a socket set, screwdrivers,
a pair of work gloves—but there was one item that might be of some help,
a pruning saw with a retractable blade about six inches long. Ideal for
trimming small limbs or branches.
Or fingers or arms. God forbid that matters should end up in close
quarters fighting, but by now Teri had learned to always think worst-casescenario. The bar had been set pretty high for her in that regard, yet these
past days had already cleared it by a wide margin.
She gripped the saw tightly with her right hand and
tried the
retractable blade. It fit snugly into a slot in the handle, but opened easily,
the blade clean and unrusted. She folded the blade back and held the saw
at her side.
Last chance to decide: into the woods or back to the house to call for
help.
A gunshot rang out from deep in the shadows.
She plunged into the trees.