Читать книгу A Wanted Man - Alana Matthews - Страница 6

They found the burned-out shell of the pickup truck parked on the side of the highway about forty miles south of Williamson. It was still smoldering when a highway patrol officer pulled off the road behind it, thinking it was just another abandoned vehicle whose owner had gotten a little carried away.

As soon as he took a closer look, however, he discovered it hadn’t been abandoned after all.

There was a body inside.

The medical examiner on scene had warned Callie that what she was about to see would not be pleasant—what people in the trade referred to as a crispy critter. And true enough, the sight of that blackened lump on the front seat was one she knew she’d be spending the next couple weeks trying to bleach from her brain.

Despite the damage, the truck’s rear license tag had been spared—an oasis amidst a desolate landscape—and when she called it in, she found out the pickup belonged to none other than Jim Farber, a local rancher.

Considering the fact that Farber hadn’t been seen since yesterday morning, the logical conclusion was that he was the lump on the front seat.

Callie wouldn’t know for certain until forensics did its thing, but she was a strong believer in Occam’s razor—that the simplest explanation was the most likely one. After seven years with the Williamson County Sheriff’s Department, working crimes a lot more complicated than this, she’d come to rely on that dictum as if it were gospel.

The question, as always, was who had done this and why? Williamson, Wyoming, wasn’t exactly known for its violent crime, and the handful of murders Callie had investigated in the course of her career usually led her straight to a member of the victim’s family.

That, however, didn’t seem to be the case here. Only careful examination would determine the actual cause of death, but whatever it might be, Callie couldn’t imagine Farber’s wife or either of their two kids pouring gasoline over the family truck and setting it on fire. This was a dispassionate crime, and the Farbers were anything but. It was certainly possible that Callie was wrong about that, but she didn’t think so.

A groan pulled her out of her thoughts. “I think I’m gonna be sick,” Rusty said, clutching his stomach, his face a couple shades whiter than it had been when they’d pulled up in their SUV a few moments ago.

Rusty Wilcox was a good number of years younger than Callie and hadn’t been on the job long enough to build immunity against sights like this. Even Callie was finding it more difficult than usual to shut her mind off to the horror of it all.

But she couldn’t let Rusty know this. She was his training deputy, breaking him into the cold, cruel reality of the sheriff’s Major Crimes Squad, and it was important to maintain her professionalism at all times.

This wasn’t much of a struggle for her, however. Over the years she’d learned to bottle up her emotions, a trait that had soured quite a few relationships.

The truth was, she was the dispassionate one. And at thirty-four, she had come to the conclusion that she was destined to spend the rest of her life flying solo. She no longer embraced the dream of a husband and kids and a white picket fence.

She looked at Rusty and could see that he was struggling to hold back the blueberry muffin he’d gobbled up on the ride over, despite her warning that what he was about to see wouldn’t be pretty.

“Do it on the other side of the road,” she said tersely. “You don’t want to contaminate the crime scene.”

As Rusty stumbled across the blacktop, Callie went back to her thoughts only to have them interrupted again by a shout from the far side of the pickup truck.

“Deputy Glass! I think I’ve found something.”

She glanced at Rusty, then moved around toward the source of the shout and found one of her crime scene techs crouched next to the passenger door—a grinning, gap-toothed kid named Tucker Davies.

Why did everyone around Callie seem to be getting younger these days?

“Check this out,” he said, excitement lighting his eyes as he pointed to a spot just under the truck.

Callie hunkered down and looked. Saw a lump of half-melted polymer that roughly formed the shape of a handgun. A forty caliber Glock from the looks of it. Just like the one she carried.

Callie immediately understood Tucker’s excitement. “Let’s just pray the serial number is intact.”

“Only one way to find out.”

Tucker reached a gloved hand under the truck and carefully picked up the weapon. He pulled it out, studied it, then showed Callie the trigger guard which looked relatively unscathed. “Only a partial, but it might be enough.”

This was turning out to be a good day for numbers. First the license tag, now this. And maybe the question of who and why would be answered much more quickly than Callie had dared hope.

“Let’s get it into the system as soon as possible. Hit every database you can think of. I want to know who owns that weapon.”

“Might take a while,” Tucker told her.

“Then I guess you’d better get started.”

WILLIAMSON COUNTY Sheriff’s Deputy Callie Glass was a Wyoming native, born and bred. She’d drawn her first breath on a cold Thursday morning in her mother’s bedroom. Her mother was eighteen years old and barely out of high school, screaming in agony as she pushed her first and only child into the world, then promptly passed on.

Some said that Callie’s mom might have survived if she’d been in a proper hospital and hadn’t been victim to an inexperienced midwife. But there was no way to know that for sure. The hemorrhaging had come on swift and without warning, and the poor girl was dead within minutes of the delivery. Besides, Mary Glass was a free spirit who had never trusted hospitals, and wouldn’t have poked so much as a toe inside one—even if her life had depended on it.

Callie’s father was a kid named Riley Pritchard, who had enlisted in the army a week after he’d found out young Mary was pregnant. The Pritchards were one of the richest families in Williamson, and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Riley’s father, Jonah, had nudged the boy into action, hoping to avoid the possibility of a bastard child claiming heir to their precious family fortune.

By the time Callie was born, Riley had been killed when a base supply struck overturned and crushed him, so the only parent she’d ever known was the woman she called Nana Jean.

Despite being widowed and borderline destitute, Nana had stepped up to the challenge of raising an infant and had done it without complaint.

Most of the time.

What few complaints Nana did have, came much later in Callie’s life, after a string of romantic disasters had made it clear that her granddaughter’s spirit wasn’t easily tamed, a trait she had inherited from her mother.

“I just wish you’d settle down,” the old woman often told Callie. “Find yourself somebody to share your life with. I won’t be around to hold your hand forever.”

But Callie was defiant. “Who says it needs holding?”

“Listen, child, you can be the most independent woman on the face of earth, but you still need a little romance in your life. It’s been far too long.”

“So why didn’t you ever get married again?”

“Your grandfather was one of a kind. Any man tried to replace him would only wind up heartbroken, and I’m not about to do that to someone.”

“He must’ve been pretty special.”

Nana nodded, a wistful look in her eyes. She’d never been a sentimental woman, so Callie knew that what she was about to say was sincere. “This’ll sound like a lie, but I swear to you that up until the day he died, my heart would flutter every time Walter walked into the room.”

Callie smiled. “That’s sweet.”

“Yes, it is, and I keep hoping you’ll find someone who does that to you. I thought you had it, once, but you’re too stubborn to—”

“All right, Nana. I think we’re done here.”

This conversation was just a rehash of a dozen others they’d had over the past few years, Nana worried about Callie’s ever-ticking clock. Such exchanges usually ended with Callie politely but firmly suggesting that Nana let her worry about her own love life. That she had more important things to think about, like putting bad guys in jail.

And that, she insisted, was about all the testosterone she was interested in dealing with these days.

“You go on, keep lying to yourself,” Nana would always say—a handful of words for which Callie had yet to find a suitable response.

NO MATTER WHAT CASE she might be working on, Callie tried her best to go home for lunch every day, and today was no exception.

Once the crime scene was squared away and the evidence had been tagged and bagged, she dropped Rusty off at the station house with instructions to make sure Tucker Davies called her just as soon as he got a hit on the Glock.

Then she drove the mile and a half home, where she knew Nana would be waiting for her with a sandwich and a glass of iced tea.

Their usual routine was to sit and watch Nana’s favorite soap. And as the melodrama played out on screen, Callie would invariably start thinking about how old and frail Nana was looking and worry that she might not be around long enough to see how the stories ended.

Today, however, as Callie pulled up to the curb, she was surprised to find a plumber’s truck parked in their driveway. Which didn’t make sense. They’d had the entire house repiped less than six months ago, and for the money they’d spent, there shouldn’t be any need for an emergency visit. Besides, Callie herself usually handled such arrangements, and if there was a problem Nana would have called her.

But when she went inside, she found Nana and the plumber sitting in the front parlor, sharing a pitcher of tea, as if this were nothing more than a social visit.

Although he looked vaguely familiar—about Callie’s age and marginally handsome, if you liked the type—she had no idea who this man might be.

Nana took care of that straightaway. “Cal, this is Judith’s grandnephew Henry. He just moved to town and I thought it might be nice for him to drop by for a little refreshment.”

The lightbulb suddenly went on and Callie remembered where she’d seen him before: in a photograph on Judith’s mantel. Judith had been Nana’s best friend since childhood.

Callie knew immediately what was going on here and forced a smile. “Hello, Henry, nice to meet you.”

Henry got to his feet and shook her hand as Callie shifted her gaze to her grandmother. “Nana, can I speak to you for a moment?”

“Why don’t you have a seat, dear? I’ll pour you some tea.”

“I think we need to talk alone.”

Nana reluctantly rose from her chair and followed Callie into the kitchen. Callie could see that the old woman was bracing for a scolding, and she was all too happy to give her one.

As they passed through the doorway, she felt heat rising in her chest and struggled to keep her voice low. “What in God’s name are you thinking?”

“He’s a nice boy, dear. What’s the harm in having him stop by for a glass of tea?”

“Is Judith in on this, too?”

Nana smiled. “Well, I guess she’d have to be, wouldn’t she?”

“How many times have I told you, I can handle my own love life. I don’t need you and Judith interfering.”

“With what? You haven’t had a date in six months.”

Callie glared at her. “I mean it, Nana.”

“Listen, hon, those pipes of yours must be just about frozen solid. Wouldn’t hurt to have a handsome young plumber check ‘em out. Who knows where it might lead?”

Callie felt her face grow red. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

“What—you think because I’m old I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have a little—”

“Stop,” Callie said, her voice louder and more shrill than she’d intended it to be. She did her best to calm herself. “Nana, I appreciate your concern, I really do, but please, stop trying to force the issue.”

“Dear, if I don’t force the issue, I’ll be dead before—”

The ring of Callie’s cell phone cut her off. Callie took it from her pocket and checked the screen: Tucker Davies.

Already?

That was fast.

She jabbed a button on the keypad and put the phone to her ear. “Tell me this is good news.”

“Better than good,” Tucker said. “Turns out the Glock has a custom serial number, just like the weapons we use, only this one’s assigned to the U.S. Marshals Service.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“I put in a call and found out that one of their deputies lost it last night when the prisoner he was transporting got the better of him. They were headed for Wyoming Correctional, coming up from Colorado Springs.”

Callie felt her heartbeat quicken. That prisoner was more than likely her perpetrator. How he’d wound up in Jim Farber’s truck was a mystery, but at least they knew who they were looking for.

“I need to talk to this deputy,” she said.

“Shouldn’t be a problem, since he’s already in the vicinity. He’s on his way to the station house as we speak.”

“Oh? What’s his name?”

“Cole,” Davies said. “Deputy Harlan Cole.”

Callie hesitated, certain she hadn’t heard him right. “Say that again?”

He enunciated carefully. “Harlan … Cole.”

His words were like a sledgehammer to Callie’s chest. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear her heart had suddenly stopped dead.

The name was not unfamiliar to her.

Far from it.

And the thought of Harlan Cole walking into her life after all these years made her want to turn and flee. If this was nature taking its course, then she wanted nothing to do with it.

Without warning a bucketful of memories flooded her mind. And while the pain that the name Harlan Cole invoked had long been relegated to a tiny corner of her brain, it now sprang forward as if freed from a cage, an untamed and ferocious beast, anxious to devour.

“Deputy Glass?”

Callie had to search for a moment, but finally found her voice. “Thanks, Tucker. I’m on my way.”

As she disconnected, she realized Nana was staring at her, concern in her eyes. “What’s the matter, hon? You okay?”

Far from it, Callie thought, knowing it would take every bit of her strength to climb into her SUV and drive back to the station house.

Because Deputy Harlan Cole wasn’t just a U.S. Marshal. He was a man she had long despised.

He was also the love of her life.