Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2)(38)

She shakes her head.

The rash itches like hell. What makes it worse is that it’s on my right hand, which I use constantly, so I’m always re-irritating the red bumps.

Ariana’s bra has made wet spots on her T-shirt, and my underwear has done the same thing to my pants. So as we’re driving back, we open the windows to let the hot air dry our hair and clothes. Ariana has her elbow out the window and a peaceful look on her face as she gazes at the canyon. Her hair is down and whips in the wind.

My heart swells as I look at her, and I can’t help but wonder what a life with her might be like. Willow is amazing, but we spend most of our time eight hundred miles apart. What if Ariana moved out of Rio Lobo and became a Texas Ranger? What would it be like to be with someone who works in law enforcement?

My thoughts are interrupted when we reach the turnoff to the main highway and our phones start buzzing with voice-and text-message alerts. I check my phone and immediately feel guilty when I see a missed call from Willow.

When Ariana looks at her phone, she gasps.

“I got four missed calls from John Grady,” she says. “And he sent a text.”

“What’s it say?”

She holds the phone so I can see.

Where the hell are you? There’s been another murder.





Chapter 49



I PULL THE truck onto the dirt road leading to McCormack’s ranch. Down by the trees, a few hundred yards from the oil derrick, multiple cars are parked, with red and blue lights flashing. Several of McCormack’s black trucks and ATVs are there, and I also recognize Tom Aaron’s Land Cruiser.

“Damn it,” Ariana says. “We’re the last ones here.”

The chief stomps up to the truck and growls, “Where the hell have you two been?”

“Ariana took me down to the open space to see the easement,” I say. “There was no cell service. We told you.”

He looks at Ariana and does a double take at her noticeably damp ponytail.

“Follow me,” he says, and he leads us through the chaos.

This is by far the worst-maintained crime scene I’ve ever been involved in. Harris’s patrol deputies are trying to put up police tape around the perimeter, but McCormack’s men have already stomped through and aren’t respecting police requests to step back. A couple of paramedics stand idly. And Tom Aaron, who shouldn’t have been allowed this close, is right next to the body, holding a handkerchief to his mouth and looking as pale as a sheet.

I spot Carson McCormack and his son near the body, too. Carson looks put out at the inconvenience. Gareth looks bored.

Dale Peters stands back from the group, head down, hat in hand, looking like he either is about to throw up or already has.

I spot a stump about a foot tall, and I step up onto it.

“Listen up!” I shout. “We need everyone who isn’t law enforcement to vacate the scene.”

McCormack’s men seem disappointed.

“Mr. McCormack,” I say, “please take your employees to your ranch and have them stay there until Detective Delgado and I collect your statements.

“Tom,” I say, quieter now, “go home. Your deadline isn’t for a couple of days.”

“Something like this,” he says, almost choking, “I need to write up and put out over the AP wire.”

“Go back to the office, then,” I say. “One of us will call you soon. Me or Ariana or the chief. We’ll tell you everything we can.”

He nods and starts to walk away with McCormack’s men.

Harris gives me a nod as if to say, Thank you.

I whisper to him, “As soon as your men get this area taped off, send one of your guys up to the house to make sure no one leaves.”

He sets off to give the orders.

Finally, Ariana and I approach the body. We’re at the edge of the woods, where the tree growth is thin. A small, old shack stands at the top of an embankment sloping down to the creek.

The body is about ten feet from the shed, slumped against a tree, the head nearly resting on the chest. The wiry man is in a McCormack uniform, but he’s not the burly soldier type. I kneel down and confirm my suspicion.

It’s Skip Barnes.

And he has a bullet hole through his head.





Chapter 50



“MEDICAL EXAMINER’S ON his way to pick up the body,” Harris tells us.

“How far out?”

“I bet he’s still an hour away,” he says. “Maybe more.”

The hole in Skip Barnes’s forehead is about the width of my pinky finger and has emitted a single stream of blood—now dried. The exit hole is about the size of a golf ball, and the back of Skip’s skull is matted with blood, some of which is still wet. Flies buzz and crawl around the face wound, and the body is beginning to stink from the heat.

“The longer he takes to get here,” I say, “the harder his job is going to be.”

I can’t be sure, but I suspect the bullet was a sporting round, not a full metal jacket like Gareth and I were shooting yesterday. A sporting round would mushroom as it passed through the skull, making a bigger mess on its way out than a full metal jacket bullet, which is designed to pass through and keep on going.

Whatever kind of round it was, it did the trick. Skip Barnes would never tell us what he knew. He’d never work on a truck with Dale Peters again. He’d never visit another Juárez brothel.