Her hands trembled. He’d hit a bull’s-eye.
“Ma’am, I can tell by the look on your face something is wrong. Tell me about Jack.”
“Like I said, I haven’t seen him since our father’s funeral.”
Bragg didn’t speak but waited, sensing her story bubbled under the surface.
When she didn’t speak, he said gently, “Ms. Trenton, you need to tell me. Why was Jack at Shady Grove? His file said he tried to overdose after your older sister’s accidental drowning.”
A bitter smile twisted the edge of her mouth. “He didn’t overdose.” For a long moment she didn’t speak. “He drowned our sister.”
“What?”
“I was twelve. He was twenty and Meg was twenty-one. Dad and I came home and discovered Meg floating in the pool. Jack was nowhere to be found. Dad pulled the security footage of the pool area. And he saw what Jack had done.” The words rushed out as if she’d released infection from an unhealed wound.
He ground his teeth. “Jack drowned your sister.”
She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “There was no audio so we don’t know what had been said but we watched as Jack approached our sister and then she shook her head and shouted. He got angry and dragged her to the pool.” She closed her eyes. “He held her under the water until she stopped moving. And then he ran. Dad followed his wet footprints to his room and then to the garage. His car was gone. Jack came home several hours later. Dad had cleaned up the footprints and called the police. He told them she’d killed herself.”
“And he moved Jack to Shady Grove.”
“Dad thought if he kept Jack medicated he could control him. And he did. For a time. And then Jack convinced him he was desperately sorry over Meg’s death. Dad wanted to believe him. Finally the old man relented, and he let Jack go.”
Bragg drew in a deep breath, trying to control the anger rolling through his veins like liquid fire. “Has Jack contacted you at all?”
She swallowed. “He’s afraid of me. I have the security video from the night Meg died. If anything happens to me, it goes to the police. Dad set it up that way years ago.”
“Do you have a recent picture of your brother?”
“No. But when I saw him at the funeral I was shocked. He’s changed a lot. His hair is short and dark and he doesn’t wear his glasses anymore.”
Digging up a grave in a cemetery was no easy task. It required permission of the family, viable reasons, court orders, and of course a crew of workers. But Jack had none of those. No one would give him permission to dig up a grave and day workers were a suspicious lot and fearful of cemeteries at night.
So Jack had abandoned the idea of digging up the grave. The tall granite headstone was a powerful image and would suffice. He picked up the wilting white roses, sniffed them, and then tossed them into the shadows.
“What time is it?” she said.
He checked his watch. “Time to go.”
“This is the last one. You can’t screw this up.”
Irritated, he shut his eyes and clung to his temper. “Shut up! I’m sick of hearing you talk, Meg.”
She laughed. “That’s too bad. Because you’re stuck with me until the day you die.”
“Bitch.”
“Murderer.”
The time had come. Time to act.
As he turned, he tipped his head to the headstone: JEFFREY ROBERT TEMPLETON.
Chapter Twenty-One
Monday, June 9, 10: 45 P.M.
A rustle outside her window had Greer rising from her desk. At the window she pushed back the curtains and stared into the night. A light by the barn caught her attention. Mitch had already bunked for the night, and José would be fast asleep. So who was outside?
She tugged on her boots, laced them up, and, grabbing a flashlight, headed outside into the day’s lingering heat. Her flashlight cut through the darkness as dust and gravel crunched under her boots as she moved toward the barn.
“Mitch?” she asked.
The black mare brayed and snorted. Nothing unusual but the brown horse now swished his tail with worry. That wasn’t right.
With Bragg’s warnings to be careful, fear rose up Greer’s back as she approached the corral toward the horses. Both were agitated.
It wasn’t like her to get spooked. She’d been running this place for years and was accustomed to chasing off wild animals, even vagrants.
She paused as the rush of footsteps barreled toward her. As she turned, a sharp sting bit against her neck. Electricity shot through her limbs, and she crumbled to her knees. Strong hands grabbed her arms and kept her from falling face-first into the ground.
Mitch had heard the car when it had arrived on the property. Since he’d served in the Middle East, it didn’t take more than a shift in the wind or the rustle of branches to wake him. He still slept in basketball shorts, T-shirt and boots by his bed. Mortar fire in Central Texas wasn’t likely. Logic told him that. But a gut trained to be ready for IEDs, sniper shots, and explosions didn’t care about logic. So he was always ready for trouble. Just in case.
When he heard the car door close he sat up alert and wide awake. Jasper perked up his ears as Mitch slipped his feet into his boots, pulled the laces tight, yanked on his shirt, and grabbed his cell phone, wishing it were his service revolver.
Shoving a hand through short hair, he left the dog in his room and headed outside in time to see Greer drop to her knees and a man haul her up. His arm banded around her waist, and if he’d not been supporting her she’d have fallen.
Fuck. His heart pounded as he gripped the phone, wishing he could chamber a round. “Hey, what the hell?”
The hooded man turned and in the dusky moonlight glared at Mitch. “Fuck. What are you doing here?”
He didn’t answer. No hint of worry or fear, just a grim determination that reminded Mitch of an insurgent who’d blown himself up. Determined fanaticism.
In the next seconds, Mitch barely shook off his shock as the other’s hands twitched and reached for the .45 tucked in his waist. Training had Mitch diving to the ground as the man fired.
But Mitch wasn’t fast enough. As he hit the ground the bullet cut through his side. Pain burned through his body.
Greer’s muffled anguished cry nearly broke his heart but also told him she was alive.
Anger and frustration blocked all the fear. Ignoring the pain, he rose up on his knees as the man dumped Greer in the truck’s front cab. Still gripping his cell, Mitch staggered to his feet.
“We can’t leave him.” Greer’s voice slurred the words.
The truck started, turned, and headed toward him. He stood his ground, one hand pressed to his side and the other gripping his cell. Mitch waited, knowing he’d have just one shot. The truck picked up speed. Seconds before it hit him, he tossed his cell into the trunk bed as he jumped to the right. The cell clunked against the bed as he hit the ground
. Pain burned through his gut. He’d accomplished the task but had he failed Greer?
He tried to push up and get back to his feet but the pain burned at each twitch of a muscle. He rolled on his side and pulled his hand from the wound. Blood turned black by the moonlight glistened on his hand. Tears stung his eyes.
Mitch wouldn’t survive losing someone else he cared about.
As soon as Bragg left Kate Trenton’s house he’d called Greer and when she didn’t answer, he’d called Mitch. Two no-answers had added up to trouble. He’d not hesitated to call the Rangers and the local sheriff. He wanted every officer within fifty miles of Bonneville.
As he barreled down the dark highway, he called Winchester and gave him a brief description of the situation. Winchester was an hour away, still at the Sycamore crime scene.
When he arrived he saw the flash of lights from a dozen police cars and two paramedic trucks. His heart sank and for an instant he imagined the ground shifted under his feet as his world crumbled.
He rushed toward the stretcher as the paramedics were loading it on the truck. Mitch’s colorless face stared back.
“Mitch.”
The boy’s eyes snapped open and he grabbed his uncle by the forearm with surprising strength. “Bragg, I tried to save her but I couldn’t.”
“Greer?”
Mitch winced as he tried to sit up. “There was a man. He took her. Shot me.”
Bragg’s heart twisted for the boy before him and for Greer who’d been taken. He wanted to stay with Mitch but had to trust him to the paramedics. His gaze nailed the paramedic. “How is he?”
The paramedic checked the IV running into Mitch’s arm. “He’s sustained a gunshot. We won’t know until we get him to the hospital.”
Bragg was an expert at pushing back emotion and dealing with the worst kind of situations. Now, however, he struggled to keep focus. He took Mitch’s hand and squeezed it hoping he could convey in deed what words could not. He loved this kid like a son and would do whatever it took to save him. “Okay.”