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“Well it’s been a long day. Guess I’ll turn in. See you boys in the morning. Maybe that rifle will turn up tomorrow.” With that he hobbled off the porch and headed for his quarters, the Border collie tagging along after him.
Will rose, too. “Maybe I’ll catch the evening news,” he said. “Coming, Beau?”
Seized by a sudden restlessness, Beau shook his head. “Maybe I’ll drive into town.”
“Suit yourself. Just make sure you’re here tomorrow for the lawyer.” Will vanished inside. Beau hadn’t told him about his new relationship with Natalie, but it seemed his brother had figured things out on his own.
Beau found the truck keys and backed the vehicle out of the shed, deciding it wouldn’t hurt to swing by Natalie’s house, just to make sure she was safe. Switching on the radio, he swung the truck around and headed toward the highway.
Behind the wheel of the company flatbed, Slade was sweating bullets. If the cops caught him driving, especially with a loaded gun in the vehicle, he’d be right back in jail. But he couldn’t pass up the chance to meet that bastard Beau Tyler and blow him to kingdom come.
He’d learned the hard way that he couldn’t beat Beau in a fistfight. But he could sure as hell get the jump on him with the Smith & Wesson .38 he’d kept stashed in his desk—a gun the police had missed. After the way he’d moved in on Natalie, Beau Tyler didn’t deserve to live.
Slade had grown up in this country, and he knew all the back roads, including the ones on the Tyler place. He hadn’t killed Jess, but when Stella had given him orders to dump her body, he’d known better than to ask questions. The bog had been his choice—a gesture, like leaving a dead cat on the Tylers’ doorstep. It worried him that Beau had guessed what he’d done. Maybe the bastard was just taking stabs in the dark. In any case, unless he’d told others, whatever Beau believed wouldn’t be a problem much longer.
As he swung onto a narrow dirt road, Beau’s note crackled in his shirt pocket. Slade planned to be at the bog well ahead of his enemy. He was a crack shot. If he was already lying in wait when Beau appeared, all he’d have to do was aim and pull the trigger. He’d weighed that plan against the satisfaction of calling Beau out first. But the safer strategy had won out. Beau was a trained combat veteran. If he’d brought a weapon, too, things could go the wrong way.
The heavy pistol on the seat beside him was one he’d bought in Piedras Negras. It was unregistered in the U.S. and couldn’t be traced to him. After the shooting, he’d wipe it clean of prints and toss it in some ditch. No one could connect him to the crime, except maybe that little worm Lute. But Lute hated Beau, too, and even if he had proof, the kid would know enough to keep his mouth shut.
He slowed down as he near
ed the bog. The swampy area covered more than an acre, but the plan was to meet Beau where he’d dumped Jess’s body.
The moon was full tonight, casting a clear light over the rank cattails. Frogs croaked an eerie chorus in the shallows. Clouds of gnats hovered above the murk. Parking the truck out of sight in the tall mesquite, he picked up the pistol and stepped down from the high cab. Maybe when this was done, he should just take the truck and hightail it to Mexico. Good idea, except that he was going to need cash. If he could get to his secret bank account in Lubbock, maybe he could—
Slade’s last thought ended in blackness as a high-caliber bullet slammed into his skull.
It was 9:22 p.m. when Beau pulled up to the Blue Coyote. The parking lot was almost full. The sounds of the NBA basketball game on the big-screen TV blared from the high, open windows. Inside, there was no place to sit. Standing in the doorway, Beau surveyed the crowd. The harried young waitress was rushing between tables, balancing trays of drinks. Stella, looking frazzled, was tending bar. If she noticed Beau, she gave no sign of it. There was no sign of Nigel.
Thinking he might be in the restroom, Beau waited a few minutes. When the man didn’t show, he gave up and left. He would have to snap the photo another time.
His visit to Natalie’s place proved equally fruitless. The only response to the doorbell was the rapid-fire bark of a dog from the back of the clinic. A peek in the garage’s side window revealed that her SUV was gone. She was probably tending to a four-legged patient or spending some needed girl time with Tori.
She’d given him a spare key, but there was no reason to use it tonight. He sent her a brief text saying he’d stopped by the house, then climbed into his truck and headed for home. He’d make it an early night and maybe get some office work done before the lawyer showed up tomorrow. To say the least, the reading of Bull Tyler’s last will and testament should make for an interesting day.
On the way to the bog, Lute had pulled off the road, leaned out of his truck, and vomited into the barrow pit. He’d told himself he was strong enough to take a man’s life. But now, as he faced the moment of truth, he was sick with uncertainty. What if he froze and couldn’t pull the trigger? What if he fired and missed? What if Slade got the jump on him first?
Earlier that afternoon, he’d confided his plan to Stella. She’d praised him for his cleverness, but her unspoken message had been clear. If he couldn’t deliver the goods, he was finished. He had to do this.
Ahead, in the moonlight, he could see the dead white cottonwood tree reaching out of the bog, its limbs like skeletal fingers. Time to ditch the truck and go the rest of the way on foot. The luminous hands on his cheap watch showed the time as a quarter to ten. With luck, Slade wouldn’t be here yet. But he couldn’t count on that.
With the loaded rifle in hand, he eased out of the truck, leaving the dome light off and the door open. The night was eerily quiet. As he crept forward, Lute tried to imagine his Comanche ancestors sneaking up on the enemy. He was a warrior, too, he told himself, and this was his battle—the prize, victory over two men he hated, and the future he craved with a hunger that gnawed at his gut.
A buzzing sound, a stone’s toss away, sent a jolt of fear through his body. Rattler. He gauged the location and eased to a greater distance. Safe. But his nerves were jumping.
Twenty yards ahead, the lacy outline of the mesquite was broken by a big, blocky shape. Lute recognized the flatbed from the trucking lot. So Slade was already here waiting for Beau Tyler. No doubt Slade had a gun, but where the hell was he? If he heard Lute coming, he could easily shoot him by mistake.
Change of plans, Lute decided. He could call out, identify himself and tell Slade that Beau wasn’t coming. When the man lowered his guard and stepped into sight, Lute could pull the trigger.
He was getting dangerously close to the truck. “Slade,” he hissed. “It’s me, Lute. Where are you?”
No answer.
“Slade, it’s all right.” He spoke louder this time. “I saw Beau Tyler in town. He’s not coming.”
No answer. A chill crawled over Lute’s skin. Maybe he should’ve kept quiet. He wasn’t even supposed to know Slade was here.
“Where the hell are you, Slade?”
