Because he knew this, and because he was smarter than his son gave him credit for being, he had a plan. A few drops of something a little extra in the boy’s glass of whiskey before bed the last couple of nights ensured that Terry slept through and didn’t wake up to interfere in his campaign.
Dev snorted. Yup, the baby was sound asleep once more, and it was time for the adult to get to work. This one would probably do it. Third time lucky.
He took a moment to look at the sky. He figured the fates were cooperating, because clouds obscured the moon. He could see a pickup truck parked beside the barn. The truck likely belonged to her dead Pa. He was surprised she hadn’t sold it, yet. That little slut’s car is nowhere in sight. She’s likely off with some cowboy, spreading her legs.
The good Lord knew women weren’t better for much more than that. Never had been, never would be.
Satisfied, he opened the trunk of the car and took out the items he’d brought with him. He’d had to purchase the gas, instead of just syphoning some out of another car. Fucking newfangled vehicles these days made syphoning a thing of the past. He shrugged. Well, that and being older with lousy lungs. So he’d picked up a jerry can and filled it with gas at one of those twenty-four hour stations out on the interstate, a good ten miles from Waco.
He didn’t move as fast as he used to, but he could get around a lot better than he’d led his son—and his son’s nosy neighbors—to believe. He did need the oxygen on some days, especially if he overdid things. He really did have COPD, that was no lie. He reckoned the damned disease would get him in the next few years. Dev Gowan was determined to live the rest of his life in the lap of luxury. What he was about to do would see to it he could do just that.
Damn boy’s such a pussy I think I’ll leave the remainder of my fortune when I die to some charity group devoted to cats.
That thought made him chuckle. The chuckle turned into a cough, and he took a moment, right there on the lawn, to try and get it under control.
Then Dev continued on, stopping when he reached the front porch. He’d taken a good look at the place the last time he’d been by—when he’d brought his son’s hunting rifle and shot out the power line. It had pleased him some at the time that, despite the years he’d spent in prison, he still had damn good aim. He looked up and grinned at the line that had clearly been repaired. He could smell fresh paint, too. The idea that he was doing this right after she’d slapped some white on the outside walls made him grin.
Dev had no doubt whatsoever that, in all likelihood, come the morning, the slut would decide to sell her place. When she wandered home and discovered she had no house left to live in, what else could she possibly do?
If Terry didn’t move immediately to make an offer on the property, Dev would damn well find another agent who would. He wasn’t certain where the gold was buried, but he knew it was on this land, near some tree. He’d seen a metal detector at the pawnshop when he’d stopped in to sell some of the old family silver Terry had kept in a box in the attic. It shouldn’t take Dev long to find his own personal motherlode. And since the land would be his, he’d have the “finders’ keepers” law backing him up when he did, indeed, stumble upon that golden treasure.
This was Texas, by damn. You found treasure on your own place, it was yours.
He didn’t step right onto the porch. Instead, he sprinkled a good amount of gas on the edge of it and then poured a thick stream down the side of the house, as far down as the living room window. And just in case he left evidence in the way of his footprints, he doused the grass where he’d walked with the flammable liquid, too. The smell of the fuel surrounded him. He pulled his leg back, not wanting to splash himself. His pantleg got a bit wet but not enough for him to worry about. He’d keep back so he didn’t catch fire himself.
For good measure, Dev had brought along some newspaper. He crumpled a couple of sheets and then set it amongst some of the higher blades of grass close to the house.
The building appeared to have a stone foundation, but he knew the age of the structure. It was wood, inside and out. Old wood, and new coat of paint or no, if there was one thing that old wood could be counted on to do, it was to burn hot and fast when set alight.
The jerry can was empty, so he tossed it away. He took a moment to assess the job he’d done. The stink of gasoline was strong, and in what little light there was from the few seconds of moonlight the clouds gave him, he could see how wet the grass was.
Satisfied, he stepped back. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a box of matches and, opening
