Hans said into the phone, “Sheryl? Sorry to bother you. I found transportation…. Thanks anyway. I appreciate it.” He hung up and said to Jack, “I guess you’re our pilot.”
Jack found Padre kneeling in front of the statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe in the St. Ignatius chapel off the main church. He didn’t say anything for a long minute. While he often came to church because of Padre, he hadn’t really thought about the reasons, if there were any. Today, he took in the old, lovingly cared for stained glass, antique statues, worn wooden pews, simple altar with the polished brass tabernacle behind it, the candle in the sconce proclaiming Jesus was present. He’d given a lot of money to Padre’s church, but he never gave a thought to what it went to. In the back of his mind guilt spread. He was trying to buy off God.
Jack was no saint. He blamed God for most of the wrongs in the world. Blasphemy, he was sure. After all, God let Satan roam free. How else could a pregnant woman and her husband end up murdered at a roadside water hole? Where was God in that?
“I can feel your anger and frustration, Jack,” Padre said without turning around.
“I’m taking the feds to California. They have a lead on Scout’s killer.”
“Good.”
“I just talked to Tim. He’ll be here in half an hour. Until then, Ranger Hern will be around.”
“Hmm.”
Jack sat in the pew behind Padre. “Frank.”
“It has to be related to Thornton.”
“Excuse me?”
“That last mission. It was … a disaster. I’ve gone through every mission on that list, and that’s the only one that was major-league fucked. Unless you count the assassination of a family of terrorists. Including their fourteen-year-old son.”
“Don’t do this to yourself.”
“Go, Jack.”
“I need to know that you’re okay.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re not.”
They stayed there for several minutes, Jack sitting, Padre kneeling.
Jack asked, “What do you know about George Price?”
“Quiet guy. Dedicated. Career soldier. I was surprised he’d gone AWOL.”
“He’s not dead.”
Padre looked over his shoulder at Jack.
“The victim’s prints didn’t match Price. The feds think he’s alive, and either hiding or a part of this.”
“I’ll find him.”
“No. What if he is part of it? What if he snapped? He attacked his lieutenant.”
“You’re not my commanding officer, Jack. Never have been.”
Jack’s jaw tensed. “Frank-”
“I’m careful. Five years in the priesthood isn’t going to erase sixteen years as a sniper.”
“Keep Tim in the loop. I-” He didn’t know how to say it. He couldn’t lose Padre like he’d lost Scout. How do you say something like that?
“Same here,” Padre said, as if reading Jack’s mind. “Get going. Find whoever killed Scout. I’ll find Price. I can’t imagine he’d be part of this, but I’ve been surprised before.”
“I’ll let you know what happens. And … let me talk to Price when you find him. Please.”
“All right.”
Jack rose, put his hand on Padre’s shoulder, and squeezed. He turned and left. He didn’t have anything else to say and prayed his friend would be safe.
They arrived in Santa Barbara at two that afternoon. Ethan could hardly contain himself. The sand! The ocean! It was beautiful. He laid down in the sand and smiled at the bright, bright blue sky. He loved the beach. Volleyball, chasing seagulls, finding seashells. He sat up and started digging in the coarse sand and found one. It was broken, but it was still really cool.
“I can’t believe you got us a place on the beach!” He clapped his hands together. “I love the beach.” He dug around for more shells, grinning. He pulled out another and it was perfect.
She didn’t say anything, and Ethan tried to remember why they were here in the first place. Vacation? No. They were meeting someone.
“Is he here?” Ethan blinked. Who was he waiting for? It was important. Very important, but he couldn’t remember.
“Not yet,” she said.
“Good.” He smiled at the waves, at the seagulls’ squawk-and-dive routine, turned his face to the sun. Still smiling, he said, “Let’s go swimming.”
“As soon as you teach me one more trick.”
He pouted. “I want to play. Please.”
“I need to know now. It’s important, Ethan. Very important.”
“Please let me play in the sand. Just five minutes.”
“Show me what I need to know, and you can play the rest of the day.”
“What do you want to know?” he whined.
“The needles, Ethan. Snap out of this idiocy. I have questions and you have the answers. You will tell me. Then you can come back to the beach. I promise.”
They stayed in their cabin for two hours and Ethan answered all her questions. He used his own body as an example, the pain breaking through his happiness of being young again. He wasn’t young; he wasn’t a child anymore.
He left her happy-giddy with her killing knowledge- in the cabin and walked back out onto the sand. He didn’t know what to do. Why was he here? He hated the sand. It reminded him of the desert. He went back to the cabin and found a small pile of seashells near the door. He took a rock and smashed them.
He wished he was dead.
But the bitch had taken his gun.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The bodies had long ago been taken to the morgue when Megan arrived at the crime scene. Thirty miles east of Indio, California, it was near the highway leading to Joshua Tree National Park. The entire rest stop had been taped off and dozens of law enforcement officers from the California Highway Patrol to National Park Rangers to the Riverside County Sheriff’s Department scoured the area for evidence that would point a finger at whomever had shot and killed a young pregnant wife and her husband.
The man in charge was Assistant Sheriff Red Warren. Megan introduced herself and Hans, then Jack by his military rank of staff sergeant-easier than explaining who he was and why he was here.
“You sure came quickly,” Warren said.
“We weren’t far,” said Megan. “This may be connected to a serial murder investigation,” Hans added. “Can you walk us through the crime scene?”
“We’ll start over there.” Warren gestured to a big rig on the far side of the lot. As they walked over, he said, “According to the male victim’s driving log-Thomas Hoffman-he stopped at the rest area at oh three hundred hours. The Highway Patrol drove through the rest stop at oh seven hundred hours and the rig was here, no activity. CHP noted the plates and went on. We’ve put a call out to the other big rigs in the area-” He gestured toward the opposite end of the rest stop where three eighteen-wheelers were lined up, and another was pulling in, being directed by a CHP officer where to park. “We asked who had been in communication with Hoffman in the last twenty-four hours. They started showing up-it’s a tight community. Last word we had is that Hoffman told another trucker that he was getting a late start, but planned on making his destination- Portland, Oregon-by midnight. It’s about fifteen hours, taking mandatory rests, so he couldn’t have planned on leaving much after nine this morning.”
“What time was that?” Hans asked.
“Eight-thirty this morning.”
“When were the bodies found?” Megan asked.
“Ten-ten. An older couple stopped to use the facilities and found the bodies.”
“Any other witnesses?”
“Not that we’ve found. This stop doesn’t see a lot of traffic during the week.”
Warren opened the cab of the truck. A simple wood cross hung from the rearview mirror. A well-worn Bible rested on the center console. Knitting needles attached to a half-made white and green blanket stuck out of a needlepoint bag with a Thomas Kincade design and the phrase “With God All Things Are Possible” embroidered in fancy script.