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“I’ll go later. But you should wait a few hours,” Brock said. “When I saw Jim this morning, I told him that you and Ruben got sick after dinner and had to go to the ER. I wanted to see the look on his face when he found out you weren’t at the motel—and to cover for Ruben’s not showing up. I could probably have told a more plausible story—I was thinking on my feet. But, anyway, Jim bought it.”
“And did you see it? The look on his face?”
“I did. It was only for a second, but he looked as if he’d been blasted in the gut with buckshot.”
“That nice young man. I can scarcely believe it.”
“As I drove away, I saw him on his phone, probably calling his bomber pal. We’ll have to watch our step. If the bastard knows he failed, he’ll be trying something else.” Brock laid his free hand on Tess’s knee. “I’m sorry. The last thing I ever wanted was to expose you to danger. It appears that whoever’s putting money behind this doesn’t just want to kill me. They want me to lose someone I love.”
Tess’s breath caught. Brock had never said he loved her. It was probably just a slip. Right now, she needed to look at the larger meaning of his words. “If that’s true, maybe this person lost someone, and they blame you for it. They want you to suffer a loss, too—to feel what they feel before you die. Does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense. First, because I had no family, they killed my animals. When that wasn’t enough, the hit man came after you. You should take your bulls and go home now, Tess, before that killer strikes again. I can look in on Ruben for you.”
“No. Tonight is Quicksand’s big chance. Clay Rafferty is here. If he likes what he sees, it could mean great things for the future of the ranch.”
“You could take your other bulls. I could buck Quicksand for you and load him in my trailer for the trip home.”
“No,” Tess insisted. “Quicksand’s accustomed to working with just two people—Ruben and me. I have to be here to handle him, or he might not cooperate. As for taking him with your bulls, in a strange trailer, that could undo all his training. I can’t entrust him to anybody else, not even you.”
“All right. But as soon as Quicksand’s finished bucking tonight, I’m loading your bulls and taking you out of here.”
“You’re not going with me. I can make the trip alone. It’s just driving.”
“Don’t argue. Curtis can drive my bulls home, with or without Jim. And I can send for my vehicle later. Right now, let’s get back to the hotel. We could both use some rest before tonight.”
* * *
Tess looked exhausted. Brock was tired, too, but he was too wired to close his eyes. He would use the time to do some long overdue research.
While Tess was in the shower, he set up his laptop and, using an app he’d purchased, requested a background check on Jim Carson, or James Carson. Several listings, most with photos, came up, none of them fitting the young man who worked for him. He narrowed the search, tried different parameters. Nothing.
Jim had to be using an alias.
So who was he? Brock thought about the clippings that had come in the mail, all of them connected to the rollover that had killed Mia Carpenter. The accident would have taken place before Jim was born. But there could still be a connection.
The original clippings were at home in his safe—the first one about the accident, the second about his own conviction, the third about the abandoned search for his late friend, Jeff Carpenter. Jeff had gone missing in Branson. Maybe he could find the same news item, or a similar one.
His search brought up an obituary. He skimmed it to the end.
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.
The old work colleague who’d told Brock about Jeff had also mentioned that Jeff’s mother had suffered a stroke after her husband died and was confined to a nursing home. By now she’d be in her seventies and could be senile or dead. He could scratch her off his list of suspects.
But there was Jeff’s son. His initials were the same as Jim’s, and the age would be about right. Bringing up the app again, he entered the name Jason Carpenter.
After a few clicks, there he was—smiling photo and all. Without a doubt, the young man who called himself Jim Carson was Jeff’s son, Jason.
But a world of unanswered questions remained. Jeff Carpenter’s body hadn’t been found. Could he still be alive?
Maybe Jeff wanted to get rid of the one man who knew about his secret guilt. Brock could understand that. But why not just kill him and be done with it? Why all the theatrical touches? The dead livestock? The bombs?
It was time he backed Jason Carpenter, alias Jim, into a corner and demanded some straight answers.
“What’s this?” Tess had come up behind him. Fresh and damp from her shower and wrapped in the white terry robe provided by the hotel, she looked tempting enough to ravish on the spot. But this wasn’t the time.
Brock showed her the screen. “So this is our young friend Jim,” she said. “And goodness, look at his record. No arrests, not even a parking ticket that shows up here. And he’s listed as a former student at Blessed Path Divinity College. The kid’s a blasted saint!”
“But we know better, don’t we?”
