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The elderly woman’s cheeks flushed. “I hate to gossip, but this could be important.” She fussed with the cuff of one sleeve. When she spoke, she stared down at her hands. “Billy Peckham’s back in town.”
Jane’s lips parted. “I didn’t know that.”
“Most people don’t. He’s staying out at the family compound with Nora and Bill. His parents,” she added for Bridger and Tai’s benefit. “My guess is his latest position didn’t work out. None of them do.”
Jane glanced his way without moving her head.
“What’re you thinking?” Bridger prodded her.
She shrugged. “Even if Billy is back in town, that doesn’t mean he’s involved.”
Tai rose and started gathering the used glasses. “Doesn’t mean he’s not.”
Jane winced. “You have a point.” She shook her head sadly. “None of this makes sense.”
Not yet. He could feel the tension ratcheting up, like thunderclouds building. Something would shake loose.
Tai snagged Bridger’s glass. “A blackmailer turning into a killer is weird.”
“The whole thing makes no sense,” Petra insisted. “Who’d be dumb enough to blackmail the head of a small community church? The pastor here doesn’t make even fifty thousand dollars a year. Of course, he gets housing, but still.”
“Can’t get blood out of a turnip.” Tai interjected another of his old timey witticisms.
Bridger had long ago given up wondering where the guy came up with them.
“Right.” Petra agreed. “How much money could the blackmailer think they’d get in the end? Herman tried hard to figure out a way to pay more, but the congregation’s been shrinking for decades, right along with the town. Tithes aren’t what they used to be. He did get the council to purchase medical and life insurance, and he persuaded the local car dealer to provide that SUV, but that would hardly make a difference to an extortionist.”
Unless the blackmailer’s real goal was torture. And maybe murder.
22
The store wason the way back across the valley to the Peckhams’ spread, so Jane told Bridger to stop in on their way past. By the time she checked in with Wes and fielded his questions about a messed-up delivery from a tool manufacturer, the sun was only a finger’s width above the craggy peaks to the west, and the temperature was falling fast.
Spring at elevation was a study in contrasts. Mild, sunny days were coupled with nights that dipped well below freezing. She grabbed a fleece jacket and headed out to the parking lot. The two men were standing on the far side of Bridger’s Jeep, out of sight from the road.
“Hey, I’m ready,” she called out. “Thanks for waiting.”
Neither man moved. Once she got close enough, she could see they were inspecting their handguns. They quickly holstered them beneath their jackets as she rounded the hood of the car.
The sight of the weapons, dark and sinister-looking, made her stomach churn. After a lifetime around ranches and ranchers, she should be used to guns. She was used to rifles and shotguns, tools of the rancher’s trade. But handguns were for only one thing: humans.
Did Bridger think Billy Peckham was a threat? Or was he worried about the threat they couldn’t see?
The cold evening breeze caressed the back of her neck, making her shiver. Suddenly the sharp, granite peaks didn’t seem so welcoming.
Gravel crunched as the three of them approached the front door to the small guest cabin in the shadow of the Peckhams’ grand home. The doors of the four-car garage were closed, and no lights shone from the main house. A dusty brown compact with a crumpled fender was parked at a sloppy angle in front of the guest house. Bridger peered inside and made a face. She looked, too. Old candy wrappers and half-empty paper cups ringed the seats.
Nora and Bill Peckham were prideful people. They’d eliminated the native brush surrounding the buildings, taming the landscape into tidy squares of lawn and precise flower beds. Appearances mattered to people like the Peckhams. Billy’s dirty old car must have given them fits.
She looked from the unloved car to the tidy guest house, nestled precisely in the center of a perfectly-mowed patch of lawn. Despite the cheerful glow from the windows and the tidy paint job, the little one-bedroom place held an aura of dread.
Or maybe it was just her imagination.
She hadn’t seen Billy in years. Not since he left town when he didn’t get the pastor’s position. He’d been home, on occasion, or so she’d heard through the grapevine. He’d been a couple years behind her in school. She hadn’t known him well, but he’d been a sweet soul. Not arrogant and entitled like Randall Dressler and his wealthy friends.
Billy had an air of vulnerability that made it difficult to be around him. She’d always hoped going through seminary, and forging a strong bond with his Savior, would help him grow out of that awkward, adolescent period.
She eyed the battered vehicle again. Maybe not.
