Reunion in Death (In Death #14)(58)

But she was somewhat mollified as there were other vehicles on the road. Other cars, trucks, long sleek trailers, and a few topless power Jeeps.

Buildings began to spring up. Not houses, Eve thought. Farm buildings or ranch buildings. Whatever. Barns and sheds and animal shelters. Stables, she supposed. Granaries or whatever they were. Silos, and what kind of word was that? It looked like a painting with all that grass, the crops, the bored-faced cattle, and the strong reds and whites of the outbuildings.

"What's that guy doing?" she demanded, inching up in the seat to stare beyond Roarke's profile.

"He appears to be riding a horse."

"Yeah, yeah, I can see that. But why?"

"I have no idea. Perhaps he wants to."

"See?" To punctuate it, she slapped Roarke's shoulder. "Sick. People are just sick." She let out a little breath of relief when she spotted the ranch house.

It was enormous, sprawling all over hell and back on one story. Portions of it were painted that same bright white and others looked to be fashioned from stones cobbled all together on a whim. There were sections built of glass, and she nearly shuddered at the idea of standing there looking out at field after field. And having what was in those fields looking in at her.

There were smaller fenced areas, and while there were horses in them, there was also considerable human activity. That relieved her, even if those humans were all wearing cowboy hats.

She saw a helipad and a number of vehicles, many of which she couldn't begin to identify. She had to assume they were used for some sort of rural labor.

They drove through enormous stone pillars topped by rearing horses.

"Okay, he knows we're coming, and he's not happy about it," she began. "He's bound to be hostile, defensive, and uncooperative. But he's also smart enough to know I can complicate his life, dredge up the past, and press the local cops to add some pressure. He doesn't want all this crap uncovered in his backyard. Doing this on his turf lets him feel more in control."

"And how long are you going to let him feel that way?"

"We'll see how it goes." She stepped out of the car and nearly lost her breath in the heat.

A baking heat, she realized, very unlike the steambath of a New York City summer. She smelled grass and what had to be manure. "What's that clacking sound?" she asked Roarke.

"I'm not altogether sure. I think it might be chickens."

"Christ almighty. Chickens. If you tell me to think omelettes, I'll have to hit you."

"Understood." He walked up the pathway beside her. He knew her well enough to be certain her preoccupation with the local scene helped to keep her mind off her fears and worries. She'd yet to say anything about heading into Dallas itself, or what she could or would do there.

The doors were ten feet wide and crowned by the bleached-out horns of some sort of animal. Roarke pondered it, and the type of personality that enjoyed decorating with dead animals, while Eve rang the bell.

Moments later, the image of the old American West yanked open the door.

He was weathered as leather, tall as a mountain, wide as a river. He wore boots with toes sharp as stilettos and crusted with dirt. His jeans were dark indigo and looked stiff enough to stand tall without him while his shirt was a faded red-and-white check. His hair was a dull silver, slicked back from a hard and ruddy face, mapped with lines, toughened in a scowl.

When he spoke, his voice rattled like loose gravel in a very deep bucket. "You the city cops?"

"Lieutenant Dallas." Eve offered her badge. "This is my field assistant-"

"I know you." He pointed a finger, thick as a soy dog on his ham of a hand, at Roarke. "Roarke. You're Roarke, and you're no cop."

"Praise be," Roarke acknowledged. "I happen to be married to one."

"Yeah." He nodded as he considered Eve. "Recognize you now, too. Big city New York cop." He looked like he might spit, but restrained himself. "Jake T. Parker, and I don't have to talk to you. Fact is, my lawyers advise against it."

"You're not now under any legal obligation to speak with me, Mr. Parker. But you can be put under that legal obligation, and I'm sure your lawyers advised you of that as well."

He hooked his wide thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans. His scarred belt creaked at the movement. "Take you some little while to pull that off, wouldn't it?"

"Yes, sir, it would. I wonder how many more people Julianna can kill before the lawyers wrangle that out? You care to speculate?"

"I've got nothing to do with her, haven't in more than a dozen years. I made my peace there, and I don't need some city-girl cop from New York coming here and throwing that dirt in my face."

"I'm not here to throw dirt, Mr. Parker. I'm not here to judge you. I'm here to learn anything that might help me stop Julianna from taking more lives. One of them might be yours."

"Shit. Pardon my French," he added. "That girl's nothing but a ghost to me, and I'm less than that to her."

Eve pulled stills out of her field bag. "This is Walter Pettibone. He was nothing to her, either. And Henry Mouton. They had families, Mr. Parker. They had lives. She destroyed all that."

He looked at the stills, looked away. "Never should've let her out of prison."