Sudden Death

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Hans said to Megan as he punched buttons on his cell phone, “I’ll get a military transport out of McAllen. We should be in California in a couple hours.”

Jack said, “I have a plane. I’ll take you.”

“That’s not necessary,” Hans said, putting the phone to his ear.

Megan caught Jack’s eye. He was a hard man, but he wasn’t too hard to read. He’d go with or without them. Scout was his friend, he felt responsible. Megan understood that all too well. “Jack’s contacts may come in handy,” she said. “And we can leave now.”

Hern said, “The victims were a young truck driver, twenty-three, and his wife. She was pregnant.”

“Any witnesses?” Megan asked.

“I don’t know. Barker and I can stay here and follow up on the autopsy and potential witnesses in the Bartleton investigation.”

“Father Francis may have seen a potential witness, or possible suspect, at the church Tuesday night. Can you get a sketch artist to work with him?”

“We’ll jump on it,” Hern said.

“Appreciate it,” Megan said. “My e-mail is on my card, and I can receive images on my BlackBerry. Get it to me as soon as you can.” She looked at Hans, who was on hold, and then asked Jack, “You have a plane that can fit all of us?”

“Yes.”

“How long to Blythe?”

“Three hours in the air, plus or minus.”

Megan glanced at Hans again. Why didn’t he want to use Jack? He wouldn’t have been her first choice, but right now the fastest way to Blythe would bring them that much closer to the killers. They’d been at a rest stop. Someone had to have seen something. There had to be a witness. Even if they didn’t know they were a witness.

Hans said into the phone, “Sheryl? Sorry to bother you. I found transportation…. Thanks anyway. I appreciate it.” He hung up and said to Jack, “I guess you’re our pilot.”

Jack found Padre kneeling in front of the statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe in the St. Ignatius chapel off the main church. He didn’t say anything for a long minute. While he often came to church because of Padre, he hadn’t really thought about the reasons, if there were any. Today, he took in the old, lovingly cared for stained glass, antique statues, worn wooden pews, simple altar with the polished brass tabernacle behind it, the candle in the sconce proclaiming Jesus was present. He’d given a lot of money to Padre’s church, but he never gave a thought to what it went to. In the back of his mind guilt spread. He was trying to buy off God.

Jack was no saint. He blamed God for most of the wrongs in the world. Blasphemy, he was sure. After all, God let Satan roam free. How else could a pregnant woman and her husband end up murdered at a roadside water hole? Where was God in that?

“I can feel your anger and frustration, Jack,” Padre said without turning around.

“I’m taking the feds to California. They have a lead on Scout’s killer.”

“Good.”

“I just talked to Tim. He’ll be here in half an hour. Until then, Ranger Hern will be around.”

“Hmm.”

Jack sat in the pew behind Padre. “Frank.”

“It has to be related to Thornton.”

“Excuse me?”

“That last mission. It was … a disaster. I’ve gone through every mission on that list, and that’s the only one that was major-league fucked. Unless you count the assassination of a family of terrorists. Including their fourteen-year-old son.”

“Don’t do this to yourself.”

“Go, Jack.”

“I need to know that you’re okay.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re not.”

They stayed there for several minutes, Jack sitting, Padre kneeling.

Jack asked, “What do you know about George Price?”

“Quiet guy. Dedicated. Career soldier. I was surprised he’d gone AWOL.”

“He’s not dead.”

Padre looked over his shoulder at Jack.

“The victim’s prints didn’t match Price. The feds think he’s alive, and either hiding or a part of this.”

“I’ll find him.”

“No. What if he is part of it? What if he snapped? He attacked his lieutenant.”

“You’re not my commanding officer, Jack. Never have been.”

Jack’s jaw tensed. “Frank-”

“I’m careful. Five years in the priesthood isn’t going to erase sixteen years as a sniper.”

“Keep Tim in the loop. I-” He didn’t know how to say it. He couldn’t lose Padre like he’d lost Scout. How do you say something like that?

“Same here,” Padre said, as if reading Jack’s mind. “Get going. Find whoever killed Scout. I’ll find Price. I can’t imagine he’d be part of this, but I’ve been surprised before.”

“I’ll let you know what happens. And … let me talk to Price when you find him. Please.”

“All right.”

Jack rose, put his hand on Padre’s shoulder, and squeezed. He turned and left. He didn’t have anything else to say and prayed his friend would be safe.

They arrived in Santa Barbara at two that afternoon. Ethan could hardly contain himself. The sand! The ocean! It was beautiful. He laid down in the sand and smiled at the bright, bright blue sky. He loved the beach. Volleyball, chasing seagulls, finding seashells. He sat up and started digging in the coarse sand and found one. It was broken, but it was still really cool.

“I can’t believe you got us a place on the beach!” He clapped his hands together. “I love the beach.” He dug around for more shells, grinning. He pulled out another and it was perfect.

She didn’t say anything, and Ethan tried to remember why they were here in the first place. Vacation? No. They were meeting someone.

“Is he here?” Ethan blinked. Who was he waiting for? It was important. Very important, but he couldn’t remember.

“Not yet,” she said.

“Good.” He smiled at the waves, at the seagulls’ squawk-and-dive routine, turned his face to the sun. Still smiling, he said, “Let’s go swimming.”

“As soon as you teach me one more trick.”

He pouted. “I want to play. Please.”

“I need to know now. It’s important, Ethan. Very important.”

“Please let me play in the sand. Just five minutes.”

“Show me what I need to know, and you can play the rest of the day.”

“What do you want to know?” he whined.

“The needles, Ethan. Snap out of this idiocy. I have questions and you have the answers. You will tell me. Then you can come back to the beach. I promise.”

They stayed in their cabin for two hours and Ethan answered all her questions. He used his own body as an example, the pain breaking through his happiness of being young again. He wasn’t young; he wasn’t a child anymore.

He left her happy-giddy with her killing knowledge- in the cabin and walked back out onto the sand. He didn’t know what to do. Why was he here? He hated the sand. It reminded him of the desert. He went back to the cabin and found a small pile of seashells near the door. He took a rock and smashed them.

He wished he was dead.

But the bitch had taken his gun.