AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“What’s that have to do with the robbery?” I ask Carlos.
“That’s your in,” he explains. “Tell your supervisors you want to reopen the Cereal Killer case. It was never solved.”
“When Jackson Clarke disappeared, there were never any other victims,” I say. “It’s a cold case, but we all know who did it.”
Carlos shakes his head. “You’re not really going to try to solve the Cereal Killer case. You’re using that as an excuse—for him and for your supervisors. But between you and me, it’s just a reason for you to go to Snakebite. Knock on Parker Longbaugh’s door and say, ‘Hey, buddy. I’m looking into your old case. Can you help me out?’ Then you keep your eyes open for anything suspicious.”
I hate the idea of going there under false pretenses. I haven’t seen Parker in years, but I still consider him a good friend. Hell, if he called me in the middle of the night asking for help, I’d be there in a New York minute.
As if Carlos were reading my mind, he says, “Look, Rory, if you believe this guy’s actually innocent, then you’ll be doing him a favor.”
“Doinghima favor?” I say, incredulous. “You’re my friend. Would you think I was doing you a favor if this was the other way around and I was spying on you?”
“You’re damn right,” he says. “If someone out there thought I was committing felonies, I’d want someone I can trust to be the one handling it. Help me cross him off the suspect list. You’ll be helping meandhelping him.”
I stare out at the ranch while Carlos lets me think through the problem he’s placed before me. A good cop knows when to shut up, and Carlos is as good as they come.
The breeze is picking up and I watch a line of magnolia trees by my parents’ house sway in the breeze. Mom is out in her vegetable garden, and Dad’s headed out to one of his apple trees with a ladder tucked under his arm. It looks like whoever was visiting my folks left without me noticing.
“Look,” Carlos says finally, sensing that I need a little nudge. “I want it to turn out that Parker is innocent as much as you. I’m not looking to railroad the guy. You’re the best person for this job. You’re going to make sure everything’s done right.”
I take a deep breath. I hate myself for what I’m about to say.
“All right. As long as I can get my lieutenant to give me the green light, I’ll head up there.”
Carlos smacks his hands together, and I realize that he wasn’t sure I was going to go through with it.
“You’re a good man, Rory,” he says, clapping me on the back.
I grimace and say thanks, but I doubt my friend Parker Longbaugh would describe me in those terms right now.
CHAPTER 6
THE NEXT EVENING, I’m packing a bag for my trip to Snakebite. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone, but I’ve got the essentials laid out on my bed: a few changes of clothes, a toothbrush, a paperback novel to read at night, and—something I never leave home without—my guitar.
Part of a Texas Ranger’s job is torangeacross the state, so leaving home like this is nothing new to me. But my nerves are going haywire. I can feel my blood pressure rising. There’s no use telling myself that this job is like any other.
I’ve never spied on a friend before.
I keep telling myself that I’m also doing this job for Carlos, one of my closest friends, but I just can’t feel good about it. I met with my lieutenant, Ty Abrams, this morning and told him I was interested in reopening the Cereal Killer case. A tough sixty-year-old Ranger who grew up working long hours on a farm in Killeen and now works long hours in law enforcement, he’s always been an advocate of not letting cold cases stay cold for long. He was all about the idea.
“You go to Snakebite and see what you can find out,” he said. “I’ll do some digging on my end and see if I can turn anything up.”
Ty is the kind of guy who never married, never had kids. He puts in sixteen-hour days, works weekends, scrutinizes cases and makes sure no stone is left unturned. It feels wrong to mislead him like this, so I tell myself I’m going to have to put in some actual time on the Cereal Killer case, even though that feels like a waste. Wherever Jackson Clarke is now, it sure isn’t Texas.
Once my bag is packed up and I’m ready for tomorrow’s trip, I leave my little house and head down the hill toward my parents’. Mom invited me to dinner, said she’d make my favorite, country-fried steak. Sometimes when I have to go on long trips, she’ll invite my brothers and their wives and kids for a big sendoff, but Snakebite’s only an hour and a half away, and I’m hoping this won’t take more than a couple of days.
When I get to the house, the home I grew up in, I find my mom in the kitchen finishing up dinner and my dad in the living room watching the Rangers play the Blue Jays. Dad wants me to sit down and watch the game with him, but I offer to help Mom instead.
She’s got everything under control—as always—but I keep her company.
“Have you talked to Willow yet?” Mom asks.
I furrow my brow.
“She’s in town,” Mom says. “She stopped by the other day to borrow a recipe book I told her about. She was going to walk up and say hi to you, but we saw another Ranger’s truck up there and figured you were talking business.”
“Oh,” I say, remembering the blue compact car from yesterday morning. “So that’s who that was.”
