Sudden Death

CHAPTER TWELVE

It was dark while Jack sat in the cab of his truck outside El Gato watching who came and went, waiting for Dillon to call back about the possible serial killer. Jack called a Delta buddy Scott Gray, who now worked for the Rangers, and filled him in on the murder in Hidalgo on the Q.T. While local authorities could work their own murder investigations, generally the small towns like Hidalgo would call in either the county or, more commonly, the Texas Rangers to work the case. Scott confirmed what Jack suspected: Art Perez had not contacted them about Scout’s murder.

“But we’re interested,” Scott said. “I’ll pass this up the chain of command, but I suspect someone will be down there tomorrow.”

“I’m having some problems with the chief of police,” Jack said without further explanation.

“I got a call from a reporter,” Scott said with a wink in his voice.

“Thanks. Let me know if you need anything. I contacted my brother, who’s affiliated with the FBI. I’m waiting to hear how they’re involved.”

“If it’s the Hamstring Killer, the feds are all over it. I heard two agents were in Austin today.”

Jack thanked Scott for his help and hung up. He watched Deputy Ripa leave the bar. As usual, he’d drunk too much and was ripe for conversation. Jack had gotten some of his best information from Ripa after a night out. He needed to find out what evidence, if any, had been collected at Scout’s house. This mysterious brunette had captured Jack’s interest, especially if it was the same woman who’d approached Padre. Had she been sent to make sure Scout was alone? To keep Padre occupied? The priest often went to El Gato near closing to take care of Scout and any others who had drunk too much. Or were they not connected at all? Was Jack reading too much into the situation?

Right now, he needed to gather intelligence so he could create a plan. Intelligence, plan, execution.

He opened his truck door quietly and said, “Ripa.”

“Go away, Kincaid. You’re going to get me in trouble with Perez.” The deputy still wore his sidearm. Guns and alcohol were a dangerous combination. Jack kept his guard up.

“Perez is doing nothing about Scout’s murder. Where’s the evidence?”

“The station. And he is working it. He traced Scout’s last week. He says you brought the trouble to Hidalgo, it’s not on his head.”

“Do you watch TV?”

“What?” Ripa swayed a bit, squared his feet. “I gotta go. If Perez hears I even told you to fuck off, he’ll be in my face. I don’t need that shit. I got an ex-wife and kid to support.”

“What happened to Scout had nothing to do with Guatemala.”

“I don’t care. I just don’t want trouble.” He burped loudly.

“Where’d he send Scout’s body?”

Ripa blinked. He hadn’t expected the question, and it was obvious to Jack he wasn’t lying when he said, “I don’t know. I guess Edinburg, or McAllen. Why?”

Jack didn’t trust Perez with the investigation into Scout’s murder, but he’d follow proper procedures with Scout’s body. There was no morgue or coroner in Hidalgo; they generally sent autopsies to the county seat. Jack would go up there first thing in the morning and talk to the coroner. He hoped the feds didn’t screw it up. Jack usually got the information he wanted, but he knew that the FBI and other government bureaucrats went in with attitudes that sometimes didn’t go over so good down here in south Texas.

Jack told Ripa, “I’ve been all over town and back and talked to everyone at the bar last night. Where has Perez been? Who’s he talking to?”

“I told you.” The bar door opened and Ripa said loudly, “Get out of my face, Kincaid, or I’ll arrest you.”

“On what charge?”

Two of Perez’s cronies came out. Abbott and Costello, Jack thought.

“Arrest him, Ripa,” the tall jerk said. The squat one laughed.

Jack’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it and said, “Thanks for nothing, Ripa.” Though he confirmed what he suspected: Art Perez was doing next to nothing to find out who killed Scout; worse, he was mucking up any legitimate investigation by not sending the evidence to the Ranger’s state-of-the-art lab. Jack knew why: Hidalgo City would be charged for the services, and Perez ran the police department on a tight budget. The chief of police would wait until the Rangers came on their own. Suddenly, it was clear to Jack: it was all about the money. If the Rangers came in and took over the case, Perez wouldn’t have to pay for it. If he asked for help, half came out of the city coffers.

Jack mentally berated himself for not figuring it out earlier. But now he had a card to play.

He got in his truck, ignoring the stares of Ripa and the Abbott and Costello lookalikes, and drove off. He missed his call, so he retrieved his phone and hit Send. It was Dillon.

“What do you have?”

“The two agents in charge of the Hamstring Killer investigation are currently in Austin, Texas. I talked to my friend Hans Vigo. He and Agent Megan Elliott are flying to McAllen as soon as they get to the airport. He figures two hours.”

“I’ll be there.”

“I gave Hans your cell phone number.”

“Fine.”

“He’s good. He was part of the FBI effort to identify Lucy’s kidnapper. Just-” Dillon didn’t say anything else.

“I won’t be pushed aside.”

“That’s what I told Hans. He’s fine with it, Jack. He said they need an in. You can trust him.”

“Hmm.”

“You can trust him like you can trust me.”

“And this Elliott?”

“Don’t know her, but Hans says she’s good.”

“Thanks, Dillon.”

“I can come down.”

“Not necessary.”

“If you need another set of legs or just to run a theory past, call me.”

Jack would normally deflect any offers of help. He had his team, men he’d trained or retrained to suit him, and he didn’t want or need anyone else. But already he had two feds on the way, and Dillon did have an expertise that Jack didn’t. More than that, Dillon was his brother. Jack had to remember family helped each other, both ways.

“I will,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Jack hung up and made a U-turn. It was less than thirty minutes to McAllen, so Jack had time to stop by Scout’s. Jack had been a soldier long enough that he could read a scene as well or better than any cop. Perez wasn’t sharing information with him, so Jack had to find out what happened on his own.

It was ten at night with thunderheads obscuring the moon, minimizing the chances of anyone seeing him. If a neighbor spotted him, Jack was fine. If Perez had a patrol out on Scout’s street, Jack might have some trouble.

He parked around the corner from Scout’s house and walked casually along the street. Crime scene tape had been woven around the porch railing. There was a seal on the front door. No patrol car in sight. Jack walked around back while slipping on gloves.

There was a police seal on the back door, but Jack knew that Scout didn’t lock any of the sunroom windows. The police hadn’t even checked. Jack was inside in less than ten seconds.

The smell of Scout’s violent death hung in the stifling house, retaining the heat of the day. Jack looked around the sunroom, didn’t see anything out of place, and walked the house with a flashlight.

Scout was a patriot through and through, and did whatever Uncle Sam had asked him to. It was that blind loyalty, however, that Jack was certain had led to some actions that Scout couldn’t deal with, and that had led to his drinking. Yet when Jack told him to sober up, they had a job, Scout did just that. Maybe it was Jack’s fault. He’d let Scout do what he wanted when they didn’t have an assignment-maybe he should have ordered him to stop drinking or he was off the team. Maybe he should have showed him some tough love.

Shit. Nineteen years and Scout was gone. If it had been in the field, Jack could have handled it better. Scout always expected to die doing what he loved. Maybe took too many risks because of it. But to die with a bullet in the back of the head? Naked and hamstrung? Jack wanted to snap the neck of the bastard who did it. Who took away Scout’s dignity before he killed him.

Still, something about the scene had bothered Jack from the minute he walked in earlier that day, and now he hoped to figure out what it was.

He went to the front door. The blood spatter told Jack that Scout had been hamstrung just inside his living room. Enough time to walk in, close the door … There was no sign of a struggle, save for a broken lamp near the door that could have fallen if Scout tried to grab on to something when he fell. Jack followed the trail of blood to the kitchen, where Scout had been duct-taped to a chair for an unknown length of time, before the tape had been cut. Scout had been pushed or fell to the floor. Shot in the back of the head. The sight was burned into Jack’s head.

Scout had been drunk. His reaction time may have been slow, but his instincts always stayed sharp. Like Jack, he wouldn’t walk into a dark house, even his own, without caution. Pausing. Listening for a breath, a heartbeat. Sensing movement, heat, the faint expel of air from an enemy’s lungs. Sniffing for adrenaline, cologne, the smell of something different.

Jack closed his eyes and used his other senses to try and figure out what had bothered him earlier in the day.

The stench of death that Jack had been ignoring came rushing in. Death and fear. He walked through the small house. If he were a killer, he would have secured the building, made sure no one was inside.

Ten minutes later, Jack was frustrated. He went back to the kitchen and stared at the dried pool of blood on the floor. “Dammit, Scout. Who did this?”

He pictured Scout lying on the floor. He had avoided looking at his friend’s dead body as much as possible. But now he couldn’t get it out of his mind.

And suddenly he knew.

Scout hadn’t been wearing his dog tags. He always wore them, even in the shower. Or, Jack should say, it. The second tag had been torn off on Scout’s last mission when he’d broken his back and couldn’t walk out. He was left for three hours before his team could return to him. “I only have two lives, Jack. I used up one.”

To verify that Jack wasn’t imagining it, he went to Scout’s bedroom and bathroom and shined his light around on the off chance Scout had taken the chain off and forgotten it. Nothing.

Jack left the way he’d come in, taking care not to disturb anything. He didn’t know what this meant, but he hoped that Dillon’s feds could use the information.

He heard a car drive up. Another. By the sound, police cruisers. Shit. He couldn’t slip through the backyard, too much light from the streetlamps, and if he were seen it would make him look guilty of something. He’d just talk his way out of it. As long as Art Perez wasn’t around, Jack was confident he could be leaving for McAllen to pick up the feds in the next five minutes.

He walked around the side of the house, hands in view.

Art Perez stood there, in civilian clothes, a cat-ate-the-canary grin on his face.

“I knew you’d show up sooner or later.”

Megan had grown frustrated thirty minutes ago when their ride was a no-show. It was after midnight, she was tired, hungry, and crabby, and stuck in a small, empty airport thirty miles from their destination.

“Have you tried him again?” she asked Hans. Hans had left a message, told the ride where they would be waiting.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure he’s coming?”

“Yes. Dillon talked to him only a couple hours ago.” But even saintly Hans Vigo was beginning to sound irritated.

Thunder rolled through the sky, the clouds were thick with the threat of a downpour, though there was no rain yet. The humidity was enough to make Megan miss the dry heat of Sacramento.

The sound of the Jeep came before they saw it.

The driver pulled near them, but didn’t get out. He was a Hispanic male about forty years old with shortcropped hair and wearing a priest collar. “Your friend’s brother is a priest?” she asked.

Hans shook his head. Megan didn’t like the unknown situation, and had her hand on her gun.

“Dr. Vigo?” the driver asked. “Agent Elliott?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Father Francis Cardenas. Jack Kincaid sent me for you. I’m sorry I’m late. There’s been a situation. Jack’s in jail, and we have to get him out or he’ll be dead by morning.”

He was strapped to a cot. Naked. His eyes burned and he couldn’t see. The room was too bright, too bright, too much light, God help me help me help me die.

The door opened and he began to shake. Not from cold, the room was too hot, the lights too bright, to be cold. The fear. The pain. No, no no no no no no …

No words, no explanation, and the needle went in, at the back of his neck, and every limb screamed in pain, as if he’d been zapped by a lightning bolt. There were no tears, no voice to the agony that rippled through his body, wave after wave after wave …

They’d left him. They hated him and left him. Not to die, they didn’t want to give him anything, they wanted him to suffer. Maybe he was dead. Maybe this was Hell. It couldn’t be that he was alive.

Another needle and the pain put him over the edge….

“Ethan!”

He blinked. Every finger in both hands was on fire. He stared at them in the dim light of the cheap hotel room they’d rented somewhere in New Mexico. New Mexico? He didn’t remember. Not for certain … his fingers weren’t on fire. They were there. Right there. He moved them, watched them glide right and left and right and left …

“Ethan, it’s me.”

The female voice had a panicked sound.

“Ethan, you’re okay. I’m right here. You’re okay.”

He looked at her and didn’t recognize her. Why was this woman in his bed? Another trick? Another perverse, sadistic torment? Let him glimpse a goddess, then snatch her away?

He reached out to touch her face. She didn’t flinch or disappear. He remembered her. Familiar. Pain and love. Hot and cold. She hated him. Loved him.

“They left me,” Ethan croaked.

“I know, baby. I know.”

Ethan’s nightmares-memories? — now occurred nightly. Karin didn’t know what that meant, but it wasn’t good. His slips were more frequent, like going into the woods and burying himself in dirt. But there was nothing she could do about that now. And when he was like this, Ethan was more forthcoming and patient with her training. Karin was almost there. After last night … she resisted the urge to gloat.

Instead, she hugged Ethan close, his head to her breast. The tension started to leave his body. He began to shake violently, then fell back into a deep sleep so suddenly, became so still, that for a moment she thought he’d died.

She felt his pulse. Strong. She stared at Ethan as he slept, this time without the memories, the real nightmares that had turned him into … into what?

A killer like you?

She swallowed. She had good reasons for what she needed to do. Karin always had good reasons.

You turned him into a killer. Without you, he would be locked up in a padded room, or maybe someone could have helped him. What do you think of that? That you turned this pathetic, tortured man into a sadistic killer?

What was sadistic about killing those who hurt others? If it weren’t for those soldiers, who were supposed to protect the innocent, who were there to make sure no harm came to Ethan, he would never have been a hostage and tortured for months.

It’s not your fight. You’re using him. You’re killing him.

Perhaps she was, but she didn’t start it. And Ethan wanted to die, anyway. He’d tried it enough times.

She was confident in the rightness of Ethan’s cause. When she’d killed before, it was for the justice of others. Never herself. When General Hackett died, she would finally be able to kill for herself.

It would be a righteous kill.