Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2)(39)

“Gareth found him,” Harris says. “He heard a rifle shot and drove an ATV over to the derrick to investigate. During deer season, Gareth uses the derrick as the ultimate tree stand, and apparently poachers sometimes come and try to use it, too.”

He explains that Gareth decided to drive up and down the tree line to see if he could spot anything.

“When he saw the body, he called me,” Harris says and quickly adds, “then I called Ariana.”

“What about the guards at the gate?” Ariana asks. “Did they see anything?”

“I asked the same question,” Harris says. “There weren’t any stationed at the gate at the time. They’re not always there. I know that for a fact.”

“Only when they know a Texas Ranger is on his way,” I say.

I’m still kneeling, and I look at him over my shoulder. We cleared the air this morning—my comment is a cheap shot.

“I thought we moved past that,” he says finally.

“You’re right,” I say, rising to my feet. “Truce.”

Lying at Skip’s feet is an unlit cigarette and a Zippo—as if he was in the act of lighting a smoke when the bullet came. He has a pack of cigarettes in the breast pocket of his shirt and a wallet in his pants pocket, but no cell phone that I can see, not on his body or on the ground.

I examine the tree the body is slumped against. Blood—lumpy with brains—is splattered on the wood about five feet off the ground. In the middle of the red stain, a fresh chunk of bark is missing.

“We got lucky,” I say.

The bullet hit the tree, which means we can recover it. Another six inches either way and we probably never would have found it. After going through a skull and slamming into wood, the slug will be mangled as hell, but hopefully it will tell us something important.

I walk to my truck and pull out my evidence kit. I take out a trajectory rod and insert it into the hole in the tree. The rod points directly at the oil derrick. The angle is actually high, pointing over the top of the tower, but that makes sense because the bullet would have dropped over the hundreds of yards it traveled. The actual path of the bullet would have been a slight arc.

“Ariana, can you handle this crime scene?” I say. “I’m going to check out the sniper’s nest.”





Chapter 51



I WALK TO the derrick so I can get a sense of the distance. I pace off four hundred seventeen yards to the base. I might be off by a few yards, but it’s close. Before climbing, I have a good look around. Vines have been scaling the scaffolding for some time, and the weeds underneath are overgrown. I duck beneath a metal beam and walk below the structure. The four legs of the base are about twenty-five feet apart, making it a big area for one person to search.

But I spot something twinkling in the sunlight and look closer to find a rifle shell casing. If Gareth shoots from the derrick with any regularity, there might be more shells around here. But this one, the way it’s sitting on top of the weeds, not down in the dirt, couldn’t have been here long. I take some photographs of its location. Then I slip on a pair of rubber gloves and use an evidence bag to scoop up the shell without ever touching it.

I lift the bag and inspect the casing through the plastic. On the bottom, WINCHESTER 30-06 SPRG is pressed into the metal. If this is the shell to the bullet that killed Skip Barnes, that rules out Gareth’s M24. The bullet itself is the same width as a .308, but the casing is too long to fit his rifle. Still, plenty of rifles shoot a 30-06 round—I have no doubt Gareth owns at least one.

A metal ladder ascends one side of the derrick, and I start to climb. The metal is hot to the touch. I take my time, looking as I go. The ladder is rusted, and I expect it will be difficult to get fingerprints. But if we’re lucky, there will be prints on the shell.

My fingers sweat inside my gloves, which makes the itching worse as I climb. I try to ignore the discomfort.

When I get to the top, I pull myself onto a small metal platform that runs around the edges of the structure. It’s about eight feet from corner to corner but the path around is only a few feet wide. A metal mesh railing runs around the outside, giving me some minor sense of safety, but in the center of the derrick the platform is wide open, a straight drop to the ground, where the drilling machinery would go if they were using the derrick to bore into the earth.

I feel unsteady on my feet. Eighty feet might not seem that high from the ground, but once I’m up here, the whole world looks different. I can see for what seems like miles: the ranch house, the tank yard, and fields and fields of pump jacks. Everything looks small, like someone built miniature replicas for a model train display.

Standing this high, looking around, I get a strange feeling. I don’t think McCormack built this scaffolding for decoration. Nor do I think they put it up so Gareth could have the ultimate tree stand, as Harris described it.

I get the odd feeling they erected it for security. From here, a sharpshooter like Gareth would have a clear shot along a huge stretch of fence line. The ranch house is probably around a thousand yards away, which I’ve seen for myself is well within Gareth’s range. The tank yard is farther away, probably two thousand yards, but someone like Gareth could conceivably make a shot from that distance.

And the tower is located along the ribbon of vegetation that runs clear through McCormack’s property, making it accessible. Or escapable.