Tess held Pat’s hands in hers. “I’m so sorry.”
“You know, maybe I’m being silly. Wade Poole wouldn’t come by here. He doesn’t care about us. We’re old business. He lives in California. That’s what Dad said.”
She asked again about the progress they were making, and Tess had to tell her it wasn’t much. “But we’re working on it. We’ll do our best to find whoever killed him and bring that person to justice.”
The words sounded empty in her mouth. Because she was no closer to finding his killer, and neither was Danny.
“I thought it was a Mexican cartel—that’s what a friend of Bert’s thinks. The…way he was…” She put her hand to her mouth. “I can’t think about that.”
Tess said, “He died quickly.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know. I’ve seen lots of people killed.”
She saw the recognition in Pat’s eyes.
“You’re sure?”
Tess nodded. “I’m sure.”
He’d been dead before he hit the ground.
As Tess and Danny left the house, Tess said, “I wonder what was going on between George Hanley and Wade Poole.”
“You think he’s in the area then?” Danny said.
“You heard her. She was sure it was him. Remember what was written on his calendar? Wading Pool. Maybe that was his nickname for Wade Poole.”
“Weird, but possible.”
CHAPTER 40
The next morning was Michael’s regular bike riding day. It was a beautiful spring day, and shaken as he was, he did not deviate from his routine. Lately, his favorite ride was up the mountain to Kitt Peak Observatory west of Tucson, out on the Indian reservation. He thought of it as the Indian reservation, because that’s what his father called them. The Indians there now called themselves Tohono O’odham, which meant something positive (he couldn’t remember what), but Michael liked the old name Papago. That was the name he’d grown up with. Papago meant bean eaters. In his opinion, the Papago people were like every other minority: overly sensitive. Like they thought they were owed something just because they were called racial epithets and got handouts from the federal government.
It was a perfect day. Clear and bright, with deep blue skies. Michael needed to think, and he did his best thinking alone on his bike. He liked the twelve-mile trip up the mountain from the valley floor for a number of reasons. One was the lack of car traffic. Hardly anyone drove up there from late morning on, especially at this time of year, unless there were tours. Most of the observatory’s visitors drove up at night, when they could take the tours and look through the telescopes at the stars. The road was steep and winding and he liked to push himself. His personal best was forty-eight minutes, but he always strove to beat it. Riding cleared his mind. Every time he reached the top, he felt triumphant. And the ride down was like a video game—pure speed in places, places where he could corner like a Porsche. Thrills and chills.
He took the 4Runner, fitted with a top-of-the-line bike rack. He brought a change of clothes and wore his bike togs—wearing the same jersey he always wore, the orange jersey with a Beechcraft Baron 58 twin-engine plane silhouetted against a yellow sun he’d had designed specially for himself and his brother and sisters. Even though they didn’t ride, Chad, Jaimie, and Brayden all had jerseys with the Beechcraft on it.
Above the plane were the words “The Survivors Club.”
Because that was what they were. Survivors.
Every time he pulled it on, he thought of Dad and his last moments in the Beechcraft Baron.
He thought: Got you back, you fucking bastard.
He took 86 west toward Ajo, the mountain ahead of him. Hardly any traffic after he got past the town of Three Points on the res. He was waved through a checkpoint by the Border Patrol. In his rearview mirror, he noticed how the traffic had thinned out, just one vehicle way back. Probably a Papago’s ranch truck, like the white one behind him at the last traffic light out of town. He turned left onto State Route 386 and took an immediate right into the dirt parking area where cyclists left their cars. Two other cars with bike racks had been parked there ahead of him; he’d probably see cyclists coming down. The cars were both older than his and cheap. He parked far enough away that they wouldn’t ding him coming out, and changed into his Sidi bike shoes before unloading his most recent purchase, a Pinarello FPTeam Carbon—one gorgeous bike. He filled up his jersey pockets with gel packs and Clif bars and a hero sandwich from Santaria Mike’s—plenty of carbs.
He locked up just as a white truck turned off 86 and took 386 toward the mountain. Could be the same one. A work truck—certainly not top-of-the-line. Maybe it wasn’t a Papago’s truck—could belong to somebody working up at the observatory. He sped to catch up with it, hoping he could draft on the truck for fun. Almost got to him, but then the truck spurted away.
Fuck him.
Oh, well—it was a perfect day. There were no other cars.
Riding was pure application and striving for a personal best. But Michael soon realized that his mind was wandering. Wandering back to their family cottage in Laguna Beach, to Chad.
Hard to believe Chad was dead.
As he rode, as he pushed himself up the steep hills—hard—up out of the saddle, pounding out the rhythm on the pedals, he could feel something solid and small walling itself off inside his chest. Like a tiny nut.
He recognized it, because he’d lived with it as a kid. He’d lived with it every time his father turned his evil eye on him. As a kid, he’d read the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and he could picture his father’s avid eye turned on him now, could almost see the laser ray, what he called the Eye of Mordor.
His father had done unspeakable things to him—and worse, made him like it.
Made him crave it.
No wonder he was bi. You gravitated to what you were used to.
But the feeling he had wasn’t about his father. He’d fixed his father. His father wasn’t around to fuck with him now. He’d burned to death in the plane crash in the Pinalenos.
But Michael was still afraid. He still felt that hard little nut of worry.
There was no reason for anyone to kill Chad.
As he pushed up the steepest part, getting into the rhythm, his lungs burning, his calves and thighs straining, the tiny nut in his heart gripped hard:
Dread.
The words formed in his head, as he pushed one pedal down and the other pedal came up, back and forth, back and forth.
Maybe he was paranoid. Sheppard might be long gone, back to Houston. But who else knew about Michael’s trip there? He’d shot the finger gun at him.
Sheppard hadn’t forgotten that. He’d hired Barkman to look into it, and he probably had whatever information Barkman had given him. Probably.
One thing, though—the two female detectives had nothing, if you went by their fishing expedition of the other day. He was pretty sure of that. He could read people well, and they were floundering. The two of them.
But Sheppard was different. Michael had read up on him, targeted him, and one reason he’d gone after Sheppard was because Sheppard was a star. He was a worthy foe. Michael had assigned Brayden to slap the tag on Sheppard, but at the last minute, Michael had decided to do it himself. He’d wanted to see what the man was like. And Alec Sheppard was impressive.
