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Brock used a letter opener to loosen the flap. As expected, there was nothing inside but another age-yellowed newspaper clipping. Handling it with care, he laid it flat on the surface of the desk.
His gaze was drawn to the grainy photo at the top. Jeff Carpenter looked young and happy here. But even before he read the headline, Brock knew what to expect.
FORMER RIDGEWOOD RESIDENT PRESUMED DEAD
Branson, MO, August 12, 2013
After a week, the search has been called off for the body of Jeffery Wayne Carpenter, who vanished from his fishing boat on Table Rock Lake, August 6. A pistol with one shell missing from the magazine was found in the boat, suggesting possible suicide.
Mr. Carpenter, who was a practicing attorney in Branson, grew up in Ridgewood, the son of the late auto dealer Chase Carpenter. He married Carla Lundberg. They were later divorced. His former wife, his father, and his younger sister, Mia, preceded him in death. He is survived by his mother, Johanna Smith Carpenter, and his son, Jason Carpenter. A memorial service, yet to be scheduled, will be held in Branson.
Brock slid the clipping back into the envelope and locked it into the wall safe with the others. At least he couldn’t be blamed for what had become of Jeff. But that didn’t mean someone else wasn’t blaming him.
Brock hadn’t spoken with Jeff since the night of the car accident. But several years ago, he’d chanced to meet a man who’d worked at the car lot. Over beers, the man had passed on the story of how Jeff had started drinking, lost his wife, and most of his clients. Not long after that, Brock had read how Jeff had gone missing from his boat.
Tess had brought up the possibility that Jeff might have faked his death and vanished to start a new life somewhere. But Brock had dismissed the idea. Even if it was true, it didn’t make sense that Jeff would come back to kill him. He’d done Jeff and his family a favor—hadn’t he?
So why send the clipping about Jeff’s death? Who would save it and send it after all these years?
But right now, Brock had more serious concerns. He had every reason to believe that one of his employees—men he liked and trusted—had betrayed him. He had to find out who it was, and who was giving the go-between orders, before someone else died.
* * *
Among his many talents, the man who called himself Jaeger possessed the gift of invisibility. His light brown eyes, olive complexion, and nondescript features lent themselves to disguises that could blend in with any crowd. When he was under contract, he’d learned to go unnoticed—to stay in cheap hotels and avoid the better restaurants, even though he could certainly afford them. He dressed in neutral colors—today a tan workman’s jacket and a baseball cap that shaded his face. He spoke in low tones and never did anything to draw attention.
He was self-educated but keenly intelligent, with a photographic mind that remembered everything he heard, saw, and read. In various jobs, he had passed himself off as a pilot, a mechanic, a computer technician, a cowhand, even a doctor. It was all part of the package that made him one of the most sought-after hit men in the business.
He commanded high fees and could pick and choose his clients. But he was beginning to wish he’d taken a pass on this current contract. For one thing, the client, who had very deep pockets, insisted on paying him by check, mailed to a rental box. And this job wasn’t a simple hit. He’d been instructed by phone that the target, Arizona rancher Brock Tolman, must be made to suffer—not just physically but mentally.
“Bring the man to his knees. I want him to feel pain, to feel fear and loss, and I want him to know why before you kill him.”
Those were his orders, for double his usual fee. But Jaeger didn’t like complications. All he wanted was to make the hit and move on to the next contract. That was why, after the bother and risk of killing some livestock, he’d decided to go ahead, take out Tolman, and be done—even if it meant cutting his fee.
But Brock Tolman was proving damnably hard to kill.
Any goon could shoot a man—quick but messy and likely to draw the police. Jaeger’s specialty was setting up the hit so that when it happened, he’d be nowhere around.
His informant had told him that Tolman was picking up his own mail. But the carefully rigged bomb in the mailbox had killed an old man instead. And Tolman’s early flight from Las Vegas had disrupted the timing of the acid on the fuel line, allowing him enough fuel to crash-land the plane in the desert and walk away without a scratch.
The client was getting impatient. Not only had Jaeger failed to kill Tolman but, according to the angry message on his phone, he had yet to make the man truly suffer. Before he died, Tolman needed to lose something—or someone—so precious that the loss would bring him low.
Brock Tolman had no family and, evidently, no close friends. That left just one possibility.
Somewhere, there had to be a woman.
* * *
Tess buttered a slice of toast, ate it standing, and washed it down with hot, black coffee. Then she strode outside to saddle her horse. Calving season was a busy time, and extra chores needed extra hands.
The sun was just rising over the mountains as she crossed the short distance to the stable. Bird calls rang on the cool morning air. Two ravens, lifelong mates, left their towering stick nest atop a dead saguaro and flapped off into the sky.
In the stable, she found Pedro forking out the stalls. That job was usually done by Shane, but he and Val had left early for Ajo to bring Lexie and the baby home. The ranch would be short-handed today, and probably for weeks to come. It was time to think about hiring some extra help.
Leaving the care of the bulls to Ruben, she rode her buckskin mare to the upper pasture, where the pregnant cows had begun to drop their calves.
Last summer, desperate for money and with the breeding window closing, Tess had arranged to trade a choice yearling for the services of a second-rate bull. Gadianton, named for a Book of Mormon character, had done his job. Almost all of the breeding cows and heifers were pregnant. But Tess had long since come to regret her choice. This spring’s calves would have lackluster pedigrees. Most of them would be auctioned off as yearlings. The sale would bring in needed cash, but do nothing for the future of the ranch.
Reaching the pasture, she saw that several more cows had given birth in the night. Some of the calves were strong enough to stand and nurse. Others, still wet, were resting in the grass. The sun would warm them. Tess inspected them from horseback at a cautious distance. Cows, like most animal mothers, were fiercely protective of their young. Getting too close would be a mistake.
