In these last seconds, he transported back to the night by the campfire. She’d raced to the fire laughing, and seconds before the image had been snapped, she’d nestled close. He’d hugged her tighter and attributed her tensing muscles to the evening chill.
Rory gritted his teeth and fisted his hands. He straightened. He’d die like a man for her. “I love you, Elizabeth.”
The truck engine roared and the bed moved slowly away from the tree. Even knowing he couldn’t escape his bindings, he struggled to free his hands and dig his boots into the rusted tailgate. His bindings clamped hard on raw wrists and his feet slid to the tailgate’s edge.
Seconds ticked like hours as the last inches of metal skimmed the bottom of his boots and his body fell with a hard jolt. The noose jerked tight and sliced into his skin. Pain burned through him. His struggles tightened the rope’s grip, crushing his windpipe as his feet dangled inches above the ground. He gasped for air, but his lungs didn’t fill. He dangled. Kicked. The rope cut deeper.
He was vaguely aware the truck had stopped. The scent of another cigarette reached him. The driver had stopped to have a smoke and watch him dangle.
Staying to enjoy the show.
And then his brain spun, spittle drooled from his mouth. As the blackness bled in from the corners of his vision, he stared at Elizabeth.
I love you.
His grip on life slipped away.
“Unbind his hands.”
Her voice had a shrill quality that made Jackson cringe. Out of spite, he ignored her and continued to stare at Rory’s dangling lifeless body. Head tilted to the right. Eyes stared sightless at the sky. Tongue dangled out of his mouth.
“Unbind his hands,” she demanded.
He sighed. “Why?”
“Tied hands mean murder and this is supposed to be a suicide.”
He hated to admit it, but she was right. Damn her. She was always right. She could be annoying that way. Always so sure in what needed to be done. And so judgmental when he didn’t listen.
“Do it!” she ordered.
He stiffened, not sparing her a glance. He couldn’t bear to look at her smug, smiling face. One day he’d be rid of her. One day he’d be free.
He pulled the switchblade from his back pocket. He kept his voice steady, choosing to keep the peace for now. “You’re always good with the details.”
“Which is exactly why you will always need me.”
Chapter One
Monday, June 2, 8 A.M.
Fatigue fueled impatience burrowing under Ranger Tec Bragg’s skin as he pressed his booted foot against the accelerator of his black SUV barreling along the rocky rural route cutting into the Texas Hill Country. Scrubby trees and low-lying shrubs bordered the road brushed with bone-dry dirt. A handful of plump clouds floated in a blue sky and teased a good soaking rain to ease the yearlong drought.
Bragg could hope and wish the rains didn’t destroy his crime scene, but he didn’t bother. Life had taught him his wants and needs didn’t mean shit to the universe. Whether the rains came or not, he’d deal.
Flashing blue lights of half a dozen police cars and media vans told him he’d found his crime scene. He drove past them all until he reached the Texas Department of Public Safety officer manning the entrance to the crime scene.
He slowed, unrolled his window as the uniformed officer approached, and touched the brim of his white hat.
“Morning. Ranger Tec Bragg. Heard I’m needed.”
The officer touched the brim of his trooper’s hat. “Yes, sir, Sergeant Bragg. Follow this dirt road a half a mile, and you’ll see the crime scene. No missing it. Sheriff is waiting for you.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Glad to have you back, Sergeant Bragg,” the grinning officer said. “Heard about what you did on the border.”
Bragg’s mood soured. Fame didn’t fit him well. “Right.”
The road led him toward a new cluster of cars from the local sheriff’s department. He’d received a call just after dawn from the local sheriff requesting a visit on an apparent suicide. The dead man, the sheriff drawled, had an older brother richer than Midas who claimed the governor as a friend. Sheriff wanted a Ranger on site for possible damage control.
Shit. His recent promotion, touted as a reward for his work on the border, required deeds he hated more than the cartels or the coyotes. Hand-holding. Meetings. Press briefings. He’d landed smack in the middle of a politicking world he’d carefully avoided for years.
Since he was sixteen, Bragg had gone his own way and learned it was best kept to himself. He didn’t rely on anyone and was careful to make sure no one relied on him.
His leather boots crunched against the dry earth as he took long impatient strides toward the scene. He wore a starched white shirt that itched, string tie, and creased khakis. His SIG Sauer gun hung on his right hip and on his left side rested his cell and cuffs. He sported a newly polished, albeit well-worn, Texas Ranger star on his chest.
Despite the heat, he resisted the urge to roll up his shirtsleeves as he nodded to more deputies, all curious about the suicide garnering a Texas Ranger the likes of Tec Bragg. He made his way toward the yellow crime-scene tape. Ahead he spotted county sheriff Jake Wheeler.
Tall and broad-shouldered, Wheeler wore his brown uniform, cowboy boots, and a wide-brimmed hat that covered a thick shock of white hair. The sun had etched deep lines in his tanned face. A belly rounded over the edge of a nonregulation thick silver belt buckle engraved with his initials. In his late fifties, Wheeler had been sheriff for twenty years but now faced a tough re-election next year. Though he didn’t fit the image of a politician, Wheeler was well practiced at avoiding controversy. Wheeler wanted to pawn off an explosive case.
The morning heat had already darkened Wheeler’s shirt with sweat. “Ranger Bragg.”
Bragg extended his hand to Sheriff Wheeler. “Morning, Sheriff.”
“Thanks for coming, Bragg. I think we might have an issue.”
Bragg glanced beyond Wheeler and the ring of officers surrounding the yellow tape to the crime scene. It wasn’t hard to miss the body. It hung from a tree.
A couple of hours, let alone a couple of days, in the Texas sun played havoc with the dead. The intense temperature triggered bloating and skin slippage within hours and the decomposition process drew black flies, which already buzzed. “By the looks he’s not been out here long.”
“I’m guessing not more than six hours. This time tomorrow he’ll be one hell of a mess.”
“I hear you found his wallet.”
“We surely did. It was at the base of the tree. If there’d been no wallet, I’m not sure how easy it would have been to identify him.”
Bragg glanced toward the tree and saw the forensic technician’s yellow numbered marker by the wallet. “Left it out so there’d be no missing it.”
Wheeler hooked his thumbs in his belt buckle. “Someone wanted it found.”
Bragg rested his hands on his hips. “I didn’t catch the victim’s name.”
“Didn’t want to say it over the radio until we were absolutely sure. Never know. Wallet might not belong to the dead guy.”
“Whose name on the wallet?”
“Rory Edwards.”
“Edwards? The oil family.” David Edwards was indeed a heavy hitter in Texas politics and explained Bragg’s summons.
“One and the same. Rory listed his brother’s fancy West Austin address on his driver’s license.”
“Old man was a wildcatter who struck it rich. Family has more money than God. Father died years back as I recall.”
“He did. Mother died last year but older brother still owns the family home. Controls the family business and has his eye on the governor’s office.”
As Bragg moved closer the buzz of black flies mingled with the growing stench of death and decay. “You think this is Rory?”
“Not one hundred percent sure. This guy doesn’t look like his picture so much.”
/> “Hell of a way to start the week.”