Page 26 of Backtrack

“You’d rather talk about bloody murder?”

Cutter closed his eyes. “Any day of the week.”

CHAPTER 10

Aringing telephone rescued D Wayne Cutter from fitful dreams. It was still dark, but he had no idea what time it was. The soulful call of a whippoorwill carried in through the bedroom window. Lucy snored softly beside him, covered up in a pile of quilts. He rolled over with a low groan and looked at his watch. Ten past five. He would’ve gotten up in twenty minutes anyway. The phone rang again. Cutter stumbled down the hall to the kitchen. He leaned against the fridge and grabbed the receiver off the wall.

“Cutter residence,” he mumbled, dry-mouthed.

“Deputy Cutler?” a tentative voice said.

Cutter wiped a hand over his stubbled face.

“This is Deputy Cutter.”

“Right, Cutter. Sorry about that, hon,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “Sandra Bedford here. I’m the Intensive Care charge nurse at the hospital. You wanted a call when Mr. Foster was awake.”

Cutter thanked her and hung up. Hand still on the receiver, he stood and beat his forehead softly against the wall, blinking himself fully awake.

Lucy’s soft chuckle came from the shadows behind him. “That’s a good way to give yourself drain bamage.”

“Go back to bed, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m sorry to wake you so early.”

She ignored him and switched on the light above the stove. “Was that the hospital?”

“Yep,” Cutter said. “Sounds like Foster’s ready to talk.”

“That’s a blessing,” she said. “Do you have time for some eggs?”

“I wish,” Cutter said. His wife made the best creamy scrambled eggs. “Afraid I need to get on the road.”

Always cold lately, Lucy pulled her robe tight around her neck and then kissed him on the cheek. “Go on and get ready. The least I can do is make you some coffee.”

He kissed her again and then turned to go shower.

“Hang on,” she said. “I assume you plan to let Lafayette Johnson know you’re heading in early—so he can learn how you do things during this interview.”

“I …”

“You’re an example to that young man, D Wayne,” she said. “One way or another. You can be a good example and let him know what you’re up to this morning, or you can teach him it’s perfectly okay to sneak around and question folks behind a partner’s back.”

“He’s not my partner,” Cutter said.

As sick as she was, Lucy Peterson Cutter was still in possession of a chiding look that could cut tempered steel.

Cutter held up both hands in surrender, then walked back to the phone and snatched the receiver off the wall. It was no use. He’d never stood a chance with this woman—and that was just fine with him.

Cutter turned off Santa Fe Drive into the Weatherford Hospital parking lot just ahead of Lafayette Johnson. The younger deputy bailed out of his car bouncing like he was already on his third cup of coffee.

Vigor was definitely wasted on the young.

Instead of his normal brown-and-tan Parker County patrol uniform, Johnson was dressed as a plainclothes investigator like Cutter—Wranglers and a starched white pearl snap—a little big, like he was wearing his daddy’s shirt. Somehow in the few hours since Cutter had last seen him, he’d found an intricately tooled leather Ranger rig with a slightly wider gun belt that rode just below the matching belt that held up his slacks. Instead of black patrol boots, he wore a pair of full-quill ostrich Tony Lamas the color of peanut brittle to match his gun belt.

“You’re looking awfully sharp this morning,” Cutter said. “You have a date after work?”

“No,” Johnson said. “I … er … I thought … Bud said I’d be shadowing you, so I figured I should … you know, look the part.”

“I don’t care what you wear. Just clear it with the chief.” Cutter spoke over his shoulder as he strode through the automatic door.