Strong Cold Dead (Caitlin Strong, #8)(43)

“Because it didn’t make any more sense then than this killing does now.” He started to take another deep breath but got only halfway through. “How well do you know the city of Weatherford?”

“I know it’s near Fort Worth and is the county seat for Parker County. Beyond that, not much.”

“They got an old legend up there about something called the Weatherford Monster.”

“I’ve heard about that, too, but chose not to mention it.”

“With good reason, I’m sure. I was called to the area back when I was doing my residency in pathology. A young couple had been found murdered, their wounds a decent match for the condition of the body lying on my slab right now. Unprecedented amount of blood and tissue loss, with little even left to identify them as having been human. Initial thinking was animals had gotten to them after they were already dead, but my examination revealed otherwise. They’d decided to camp at the foot of some hills rich with caves, in spite of the warning signs and rumored sightings in the past.”

“Sightings?”

“Kind of stuff better fit for supermarket tabloids. The reason I’m telling you this is that these stories all originated with the Native Americans who roamed the area we now call Parker County. A story was passed down through generations, about a fire-breathing bull that walked on its hind legs and ventured out of the hills—especially in winter, when the game grew scarce. I took some footprint impressions from the scene and sent them for analysis, but what was left of them had degraded too much for anybody to take a stab at a proper identification. This morning, I’m kind of embarrassed to say, I looked through my records to see if I could dig those impressions up. But that was back in the Stone Age, before computers ruled the world, so I suppose they’re gone forever.

“And I’ll tell you something else, Ranger,” Whatley resumed, after Caitlin had figured he was done. “There’ve been other reported sightings across the state, sometimes associated with unexplained disappearances, and always near Indian land.”

“Nature takes care of its own,” Caitlin muttered, repeating White Eagle’s own words, which suddenly seemed oddly appropriate.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, Doc.”

“Anyway, Ranger, what I can conjure from memory tells me the conditions those victims were found in pretty much mirrors that of the one found outside that reservation. That’s the first thing I wanted to tell you about the body, which I left out of my report.”

“What’s the second?”

“Something I found in the general area of the remains,” Whatley said, reaching into his top desk drawer to produce an item tucked into a plastic evidence pouch. “Nobody knows about this yet besides you and me,” he continued, handing the pouch across his desk. “I figure since the Rangers are running lead on this, you’d know what to do with it.”

Caitlin inspected the object through the plastic, felt her breath seize up in her throat.

“I’m going to assume you recognize that,” Whatley was saying.

She traced the outline of the object, as if hoping her eyes had it wrong. A strange buzzing filled her ears, making her wonder if her thoughts were coming so quickly they were spilling out her ears.

“I’ll need that back, Ranger,” Whatley said.

Caitlin hadn’t realized she was still holding it, nor did she remember returning the evidence bag to him, until she watched him stow it back in his drawer.

“For safekeeping,” he resumed.

She realized the buzzing she’d heard was coming from her cell phone. She eased it from her pocket, forcing her hand steady. “I’m here, Captain.”

“Not for long, Ranger. You ever hear of a restaurant called Hoover’s Cooking, up in Austin?”

“I think so.”

“Ranger chopper’s waiting to take you there right now. I figured I’d give you the word before Jones.”

Caitlin felt her phone vibrate again and checked the new incoming call. “That’s Jones now, D.W. What’s he going to tell me?”

“That a storm even bigger than the gale force of Hurricane Caitlin has made a direct hit on Texas, and that’s just for starters.”

“Starters?”

“Chopper’s waiting, Ranger. You’d best get a move on.”





37

HOUSTON, TEXAS

“I’d like to see my son, ma’am,” Cort Wesley Masters told Julia De Cantis, principal of the Village School.

He’d driven the whole way here with the air-conditioning blowing as hard as he could take it, still arriving at his son Luke’s school with his blood simmering and sweat soaking through his shirt. It was enough to make him feel like dropping into a pool full of ice cubes, though he suspected that wouldn’t have cooled him off.

“I thought it best we talk first, Mr. Masters,” De Cantis said, chair pushed as far back from her desk as the wall would allow. “To update you on everything we know about the incident.”

“The incident that occurred yesterday and I heard about for the first time a few hours ago.”

“I was traveling on school business and, unfortunately, my subordinates had the wrong contact info for you. I returned as soon as I was informed, but didn’t get back until just a few hours ago myself. I called you as soon as I had an opportunity to get up to speed.”