Blood Lines (44 page)

“There can't be anything that interesting out there,” Don said.

Shel didn't speak. He couldn't. He didn't know what to say. He was also aware of the faces of the three children pressed against the living room window. Evidently Don or Joanie had made them stay in the house.

Don stepped down off the porch and crossed the neatly kept lawn. He wore slacks and a shirt. He probably hadn't gotten home from the church more than a few minutes ago.

As his brother closed on him, Shel felt that coming there was a mistake. He should have just taken a room at a motel, then got gone in the morning. He wouldn't have had to answer questions from Don.

And he could have put it all behind him that much sooner.

Except that running away wouldn't solve the problems he had now. Even if there was no proof that his daddy had killed a fellow soldier in Vietnam, Shel didn't know if he should open an investigation anyway.

What good would that do?
he asked himself as he sat there.

“Shel?” Don stopped at the window and stared at him. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Shel whispered hoarsely. “I'm fine.”

“What happened?”

Shel tried to speak and couldn't. His eyes burned and he knew he was about to cry. He felt angry at himself for being so weak and foolish. He knew he hadn't done anything wrong, but he felt like he had.

“Shel?” Don came closer and leaned on the door.

“I had a talk with Daddy,” Shel said. His voice cracked. “Had something I needed to work out with him.”

Don was silent for a time. From the corner of his eye, Shel saw the tight lines of fear on his brother's face as he took in the damage to Shel's face. He knew instantly what Don feared the most.

“Is Daddy all right?” Don asked in a quiet voice.

“Yeah.” Shel tried to grin a little, but his pulped lips and swollen face made it hard. “Man hits as hard as a mule kicks, but he's definitely got the mule beat when it comes to stubbornness.”

Don didn't smile. “Why did you get into a fight with Daddy?”

“He didn't like what I asked him.”

Don shook his head. “I can't even begin to guess what you asked him.”

“It's a long story, Don. I ain't yet decided what I'm going to do about it.”

“You're going to tell me what's going on.”

“I don't know if that's the right thing to do.”

“Shel.” Don's voice held more force in it now. “All the time I was growing up, I've seen you and Daddy argue and get mad at each other. When Mama was alive, God rest her soul, I think she kept you two from killing each other. Later, after she was gone, I tried my best to do the same.”

“I think you probably did,” Shel said.

“As much as I hated to see you go, I think it was the best thing you could have done at the time.”

“I know.” Shel took a deep breath. His ribs burned with pain.

“That's why you're going to tell me what's going on. Because that's the best thing you can do right now.”

“You're not going to like it.”

“I expect not, but I'd like not hearing it even less.”

“Get in. I don't want to tell it here.”

“Let me tell Joanie I'll be back.” Don turned and walked back to the house.

Tired and hurting, Shel leaned his head back against the seat and tried to relax. He wished he hadn't come. He wished he'd just stayed at Camp Lejeune and left this part of his life alone.

More than anything, he wished that Victor Gant hadn't made a believer of him.

>> Rafter M Ranch

>> Outside Fort Davis, Texas

>> 2127 Hours (Central Time Zone)

Deputy Sheriff Wayne Hayscott sipped his coffee as he drove the farm-to-market road that went by the Rafter M Ranch. Fifty-three years old, he'd already spent over half his life as a sheriff's deputy. The county was easy to patrol, and there was little trouble that went on in the area.

He didn't see the need to cruise by the ranch despite what the sheriff said. Tyrel McHenry was the meanest and orneriest man Hayscott had ever met. Tyrel was an old boar coon. Nobody in their right mind would try to tree him.

The cold coffee tasted bitter. Hayscott hated it even more because he was at least thirty minutes from another warm-up back at the quick stop.

Just be a minute,
he told himself.
There and back out. No muss, no fuss.

In the distance, he spotted the ranch house. It was dark. That wasn't a surprise. From what he knew of Tyrel McHenry, the man was up before the sun every day. That meant he'd be early to bed.

Hayscott put the coffee cup back in the holder; then he slowed and pulled the wheel around in a tight U-turn. His headlights swept across the scrub grass and cactus clinging to the side of the hill leading up to the Rafter M.

He was yawning when he saw the light glint on metal. Intrigued, he stopped the car and backed around to use the spotlight mounted by the window. The bright halogen beam pierced the dark night that almost hid the motorcycle that had been left there.

Upon closer inspection, Hayscott saw there were at least three motorcycles there. Warily he reached under the seat and pulled out the sliding rack that held an M4 and a 12-gauge shotgun. He also pulled his sidearm from its holster and dropped it onto the passenger seat in case he had to get to it quickly.

He reached for the handset and pulled it up to his mouth. “Dispatch, this is X-ray 46.”

“Hey, Wayne,” Jenny Wilcox's silken voice answered. She was a recent college grad who had returned to the town. Her daddy had been a police officer. Now he was a full-time fisherman and she called dispatch on the night shift. “Slow night?”

“It was,” Hayscott said. “I'm at Tyrel McHenry's ranch. The sheriff said he wanted us to keep an eye on the place for the next few days.”

“I know.” Jenny sounded immediately more interested. “I saw the handout. Supposed to be a threat from some biker gang?”

“The Purple Royals,” Hayscott answered. “I think I'm looking at some of their motorcycles right now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Let me get a little closer and send you some of the tag numbers. We'll match 'em up and see what we get.”

“Okay, but be careful. Those men are dangerous.”

Hayscott took his foot from the brake and let the cruiser roll forward. He twisted the spotlight and tried to focus on the motorcycles.

“You know me, Jenny,” Hayscott said. “I'm always careful.”

Hayscott was almost on top of the motorcycles. For a minute he thought he was going to have to get out of the car and go have a look. Then the numbers came into focus.

You got old man's eyes,
he chided himself.

“Okay, I got a plate,” Hayscott stated. “And it's from North Carolina.” He wasn't happy about that. On the other hand, maybe a group of hunters was out deer hunting or running coon dogs. Just because the plates were from North Carolina didn't mean that the motorcycles belonged to Purple Royals.

“Let me have the plate number,” Jenny said.

Hayscott started to read the numbers and letters off, but he noted movement on his left side. He swiveled his head around and stared down the length of a silencer-equipped pistol.

“Sorry, bro,” a deep voice said. “You picked the wrong night to come down the wrong road.”

Hayscott started to reach for his handgun; then white light belched from the muzzle of the offending weapon. Heat hammered his head and he suddenly couldn't sit upright anymore. He started falling forward, but he never felt himself hit the steering wheel.

>> Maude's Truck Stop & All-Nite Diner

>> Outside Fort Davis, Texas

>> 2127 Hours (Central Time Zone)

Shel sat in the SUV outside the diner. He'd started talking to Don along the way. Despite his best efforts, Shel hadn't been able to wait. He'd finished up about the time they'd pulled into the parking lot.

Three 18-wheelers, two sheriff's cruisers, and a handful of through traffic parked there. He stared at the bright light of the diner. For a moment, Shel resented how the lives of the people inside the diner hadn't been affected by the events of the evening. They ate and talked, and he felt like he'd been turned inside out.

“Do you know if there was a murder committed over there?” Don asked finally. “Do you know who Daddy was supposed to have killed?”

“No.”

“That was forty years ago. I know there's no statute of limitations on a murder, but you'd have to have a body first, wouldn't you?”

Shel looked at Don. “This isn't about prosecuting Daddy.”

“You said Victor Gant threatened to tell everybody.”

“So what? The likelihood of finding that body—or a witness who could be trusted—is small.”

“Then Daddy is going to be all right.” Don sounded relieved. “Daddy will—”

“Go straight to hell for murder?” Shel asked.

Don looked at him.

“We're stuck,” Shel said. “Me and you. I need to tell the military. And you gotta work this out with God. Both of us are where we never wanted to be over a man neither of us feels like he knows. You can't hide this from God any more than I can hide it from the military.”

Don seemed overcome for just a moment. He stared at the large diner windows. “How can we help Daddy?”

“Would you listen to yourself? This isn't something we can fix. Even if I didn't say a word, do you think you can square this up with God and make it good in his book?”

Silence filled the SUV's interior for a moment. Then Max stood and put his head on Shel's shoulder.

“Is that what you're worried about?” Don asked, turning to look at Shel. “What God's going to think about all this?”

Shel felt suddenly uncomfortable. He didn't like talking about God. He never had. God had always been Don's thing.

But his daddy's damnation was what he was worried about the most. That surprised him. In the end, he supposed that was why he'd gone to Don's instead of just leaving town. Shel knew he didn't have any answers, and he was pretty sure the military didn't have anything he wanted to hear.

That left only Don.

“I'm going to be sick,” Don said quietly.

“No,” Shel said. “You're not.”

But Don was. He turned suddenly and opened the door. He'd barely cleared it when he started heaving.

43

>> Maude's Truck Stop & All-Nite Diner

>> Outside Fort Davis, Texas

>> 2131 Hours (Central Time Zone)

Shel reached across and put his hand on his brother's back, just letting him know he was there. He wasn't feeling very good himself.

After a minute, Don's sickness passed. He flopped weakly back into the seat. Shel handed Don a disposable towelette from the kit he carried to deal with Max.

Don took it and wiped his mouth. “Thanks.”

“You okay?”

“No.” Don took in a deep breath and let it out. He looked at Shel. “Did Daddy say he . . . he . . . that he did what you think he did?”