Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2)(29)

“That brings me to my other discovery,” Tom says.

Since Susan Snyder was elected, he explains, every item that came before the council passed—or was voted down—unanimously. There were differences of opinion, of course, but the council members always found a compromise.

“People were worried that Susan Snyder might not fit in, but really the group was highly functional.”

“I’m sensing there’s a but coming up,” Ariana says.

He asks if I read the recent article about Carson McCormack filing for an easement to move his trucks through an area designated as open space.

“This didn’t go to a vote until after Susan was dead,” Tom says, “but the town clerk let me take a look at the full file.” He pulls out a printout of email correspondence and holds it up. “Susan planned to vote no.”

Tom is providing us with this information about Carson McCormack unprompted. He doesn’t know about the attack on my truck, or my encounter with Gareth McCormack.

But it’s far from a smoking gun. In fact, it’s almost inconsequential.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” I say, “but all McCormack needed was three votes. Had Susan lived to vote against the measure, it still would have passed four to one.”

“What we need to figure out,” Ariana says, “is why she was going to vote no.”

I ask Tom to explain the easement that Carson McCormack requested. Tom stands up and focuses on the US Geological Survey map behind his desk.

“Here is the town proper,” he says, pointing to a small cluster of black squares. Then he uses his finger to trace a much larger area, extending into undeveloped hills and valleys. “But this is the town’s incorporated area.”

Tom identifies a huge section of the map as McCormack’s property.

“Years before I moved here,” Tom says, “McCormack began buying up property and drilling it for oil. Carson’s late wife was still alive, and Gareth would have been a little boy.”

This is the first I’ve heard about a Mrs. McCormack, and I ask how she died.

“I don’t think an autopsy was ever performed,” Tom says. “From what I hear, she complained of a bad headache and an hour later she was dead.”

Ariana and I exchange a look—another unusual death.

Getting back to the easement, Tom explains that almost twenty years ago McCormack asked the council to designate a chunk of land in the southern part of the town’s incorporated area as open space.

“I’m no expert about oil,” Tom says, “but the terrain out there is pretty rugged. I figure he didn’t want anyone else to drill there because their pumps would compete with his.”

“So what changed?” I ask. “Why does he want access now?”

Tom shrugs. “Maybe his shipping routes are different.”

“Maybe it’s time we go ask him,” I say to Ariana.

I thank Tom for his help and discretion, and at the front of the building, we say good-bye.

As I’m about to climb into my truck, I get a call from Freddy Hernandez, who has the results of the blood test. He starts going on about blood glucose, fatty acids, adrenergic receptors, and vasoconstriction—whatever those things are.

“Freddy,” I say. “Remember, you were the valedictorian in high school while I was the quarterback of the football team. Break down the test results for me.”

“Bottom line?” he says.

“Yes. Bottom line.”

“The EpiPen worked,” he says.

“You’re sure?”

“Yep. I can explain why in court if you need me to. But to analyze the blood any further, I need to know what I’m looking for,” he says.

“That’s the problem,” I say. “I don’t know. I need you to work some magic here, Freddy.”

He says there’s enough blood left for one more test. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says. “But don’t hold your breath.”

When I hang up, I tell Ariana the news.

“I told you it wasn’t Jessica Aaron,” she says.

“On that note,” I say, “hang on a sec.”

I leave her on the sidewalk next to my truck and I head back into the newspaper building.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“I’m going to ask Tom if his offer to stay in their studio still stands.”





Chapter 38



I’M NOT SAD to say good-bye to my little motel room. Norma, the woman who runs the place, comes out to see me off.

“I’m going to miss sitting in the lobby and listening to you play that guitar,” she says as I carry my guitar case out of the room and set it in the passenger side of the truck next to my duffel bag.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” I say, “how do you stay in business?” Since I came to town, I’ve been her only customer.

She pops a cigarette into her mouth and lights it, then mumbles through her closed lips, “McCormack.”

“McCormack?”

She says that when Carson McCormack’s business associates are in town, he usually rents out every room. That income keeps her afloat during the lean weeks.

“Ask around,” she says. “I bet he subsidizes just about every business in this town in one way or another. Rio Lobo would crumble and blow away without him.”