Cut and Run(45)

Word of Macy’s death had spread among law enforcement in the Austin area. One of their own had gone down, and regardless of which law enforcement agency Macy had been attached to, the Rangers and local police felt her loss personally.

He climbed the stairs to his one-bedroom apartment. He unlocked the door, stepped inside, and flicked on the lights. He rarely spent time here. He was either working a case or, when he was unable to face beige walls another night, staying in a hotel.

He locked the door behind him, and tossed his hat and keys on a small table by the door. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it on a simple peg.

This place was set up so that nothing in it reminded him of what he’d lost. The couch, coffee table, and end tables were standard and had been discounted floor models. The television was wide-screen with high definition, though he rarely turned it on these days. And the one bit of art was the Texas state flag, which he’d hung on the wall over the couch.

His mother had told him he would have to do better than a month-to-month lease overlooking dumpsters, and then told him to “hang a few pictures for God’s sake,” as she’d unpacked a new set of white dishes and a basic collection of pots and pans. When she’d discovered the cactus plant she’d left was nearly dead, she’d taken that back.

He strode into the kitchen and loaded the coffee maker with strong Mexican coffee. As the machine warmed up and gurgled, he grabbed a sausage biscuit from the freezer and popped it in a microwave. By the time it was ready, he was pouring his first cup of coffee.

In the next twenty minutes, he polished off the biscuit and downed two cups of coffee before laying his clothes on a neatly made bed.

He stripped and turned on the shower. As the steam rose up around the shower door, he looked in the mirror, loaded shaving cream on his face, and quickly whisked the blade around his jaw and up his neck.

Each day for the last four years, he’d wondered when the good Lord was going to release him from the purgatory of life. When he realized his maker was content to let him remain among the living, he’d taken matters into his own hands and embraced every fool risk a man could take. There were some Rangers who wondered aloud how he’d survived the bold chances he’d taken, but he was solving cases and getting results. Eventually those successes drifted up the chain of command and got him exactly what he did not want—a promotion.

Steam from the shower fogged the mirror, and when he wiped it away, a haggard face stared back at him. He realized he just might get his wish and how foolish it was. His life wasn’t anything close to the one he’d had with Sierra, but for right now, he liked what he had with Faith, whatever the hell that was.

He stepped into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the remnants of shaving cream, fatigue, and the aches and pains in his ribs still lingering from a fight with a drug dealer last year.

Out of the shower, he toweled quickly. Fueled on caffeine, his body was so wired the chances of sleep were slim to none. But he lay down, knowing he should at least try, because he’d been a cop long enough to know even a little crappy shut-eye cleared the fog from his brain. He needed every advantage he could take. He closed his eyes, but his mind kept turning.

Faith. Macy. Jack. Paige.

There was trouble connected to that damn ranch. He didn’t fully understand the correlation, but one way or another, he would get some answers in a few hours.

When his cell rang, it was four a.m. The cell’s display read MELISSA SAVAGE. Clearing his throat, he sat up and on the third ring said, “This is Hayden.”

“I have surveillance footage from several shops between Second Chances and the spot where Macy Crow was hit.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He dressed in the Rangers’ trademark khakis, white shirt, boots, and string tie. He brewed fresh coffee and filled a to-go cup. He was fairly certain if he were cut, he’d bleed java.

The streets were quiet at this hour, as were the hallways of the justice center. He moved down the third floor hallway toward the light spilling out from the last door on the right. In the office, Melissa Savage was sitting cross-legged in her chair, cup of tea in hand, watching what looked like raw video footage. A coffeepot on the counter gurgled out fresh brew.

Hayden knocked on her door, and she looked up over her glasses. “Do you ever sleep, Savage?”

“Every Saturday whether I need it or not.”

“I hear you. Mind if I grab a cup?”

“Help yourself. Brogan is on his way.”

Hayden crossed to the coffeepot as the last bit percolated out. He pulled the pot and filled his cup. One sip was a jolt to the heart. “You drink it this strong?”

“I don’t touch the stuff. But I’ve worked with cops long enough to know they run better on high-octane. I figured Ranger Brogan might want a cup or two to keep up with you.”

“He’ll get that.”

As if on cue, Brogan arrived and wordlessly went to the machine and filled a paper cup. He all but drained the first cup before topping it off with more. “Weak coffee, Savage.”

She didn’t look up from her computer and deadpanned, “You’re just bummed I didn’t write your name on the cup with a cute smiley face like the local coffee barista downstairs.”

Hayden wasn’t in the mood to listen to one of Brogan’s rare attempts at banter. “What did you find, Savage?”