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“I’m leaving town, I’ll take whatever you have.”
Lenny let out a low whistle an
d rattled off a figure as he handed Jeremy a box. “You must be spending every dime you earn with them Rangers on this.”
Jeremy threw a wad of bills on the table and grabbed the box from Lenny’s hands. “It’s my money.” He shoved the curtain aside and left the store.
By two o’clock that afternoon, he’d cleaned up, forced some food down, and packed the few belongings he had scattered around his rented room. Henderson’s letter had been puzzling, but indicated he needed Jeremy to do some investigation.
His assignments with the Rangers had been fewer and fewer as word spread that he liked his morphine. His savings just about depleted, an offer of work from Henderson came at the right time. As a friend, he’d have liked to help him without charge, but a man needed money to live, so he would have to take Henderson up on his offer to pay him for his work.
Jeremy took one last glance around the room and lifted his satchel. Patting the bag to make sure the box he’d bought from the pharmacy was tucked inside, he closed the door and jogged down the stairs and out onto the street. He glanced at the gloomy sky, glad to be leaving Austin and heading to Galveston’s fresh sea air. Things would be better there. He probably wouldn’t need the drugs as much.
Galveston, Texas
Hunter never remembered what he’d said to Louis Smith or how he’d gotten out of the man’s office and all the way back to his boardinghouse. As he’d stood staring at the murderer, the blood pounding in his head had blocked his hearing. Only his well-honed sense of survival had kept him from reaching for the man’s throat and squeezing until he dropped to the floor like a rock.
They must have chatted because Hunter had returned with papers that Smith had given him to sign, with instructions on how to transfer his money to Smith and Sanders. He remembered wiping his hand on his pants as he’d left the office, the feel of the criminal’s touch on his skin like a plague.
Ten years he’d spent looking into the face of every man he’d ever arrested, always hoping to see the black dead-fish eyes of the man who’d gunned down the teller and his father while Hunter crouched under the desk.
He closed the door to his room and sat on the bed, his arms tightly crossed against his chest. Sweat beaded his forehead as he had tried desperately to swallow the bile rising at the back of his throat. He began to shake, his teeth chattering as if the temperature in the room had suddenly dropped. Whipping the blanket off the bed, he wrapped himself in its warmth, but nothing helped. He closed his eyes and remembered.
Once the man fled the bank, Hunter sat, unable to think, unable to move. His father lay in a pool of blood, the bright red stream seeping into the wooden boards of the floor. His eyes were open, staring at nothing. Hunter felt a scream starting deep inside, but he held on, rocking back and forth—numb. After a period of time, he crawled from his hiding place, and stumbled out the back door.
He started to run, the tears spilling from his eyes to his chin, to be swept away with the wind. He ran until he had no breath left, then stopped, bent over, and emptied his stomach onto the dirt.
It was dark when he’d returned home. Michael, Rachel, and Ellie sat at the kitchen table, their eyes swollen. “Where have you been?” Rachel’s accusatory tone hit him like a hammer.
“Out.”
“Papa’s dead.” Ellie’s chin quivered.
Hunter turned on his heel and walked away. He climbed the stairs to his room and lay on his bed, where he stayed until the morning they buried his father.
Hunter sat up with a jolt, disoriented. He ran his palm down his face, trying to adjust to the darkness in his room. He patted his chest, noting that he’d fallen asleep in his clothes without even removing his boots. Still confused, he pulled his boots off, then stood and unbuttoned his shirt.
He stopped in mid-motion as his memory rushed back like water bursting from a slight crack in a dam. The monster Emily was married to was the man who’d put a gun to his father’s head and pulled the trigger.
He almost laughed at the irony. Ten years of looking at one criminal after another, and all that time Smith was here in Galveston, pretending to be an upstanding businessman.
And beating his wife.
He stripped off the rest of his clothes and climbed back into bed, naked. He flipped onto his back and crossed his arms behind his head, linking his fingers. Careful consideration of his next move would be the best way to bring Louis Smith down. He was a liar, a cheat, a wife-beater, a thief, and a murderer.
If Jeremy was able to come to Galveston, he would have more than just shady business practices to investigate. Between the two of them, they needed to see that Smith was charged with murder and hanged for his crime.
Before Hunter killed the man himself.
“Dressmaker again?” Louis glanced up from his morning newspaper, his usual scowl firmly in place.
Emily fiddled with her tea cup. “I go every Tuesday. It’s a standing appointment.”
“Perhaps you are spending too much of my money.”
She quelled the anger that arose. Once Louis had gotten his hands on the vast amount of money her parents had left her, she’d never seen a dime that she hadn’t had to beg for. And account for. There was no such thing as ‘pin money’ for Mrs. Smith. All items, no matter how small, were charged and the bills sent to Mr. Smith.
The sale of some of her mother’s jewelry and burying the money she’d received had given her the cache to flee to Guthrie. There were still some pieces to sell, but for now she would hold onto them. She would love more than anything to be able to keep a few of them as it was all she had left of her parents. Louis had even sold the lovely home she’d grown up in, furnishings and all, and kept the money.
