Page 57 of Backtrack

“Why are you so fixated on this right now? We should focus on—”

She put a finger to his lips to shush him.

“You know those heuristic rules you had in Special Forces?”

He sighed, smiling softly. “I know the rules.” He’d probably not heard the wordheuristicspoken ten times in his life, and eight of those times had been from Lucy’s lips.

“Don’t go anywhere for the first timebecame one of my favorites,” she said. “I didn’t understand it early on. But it means something like always learn as much as you can about a place before you go there.’ Right?”

“You could say that.” Cutter had no idea where this was headed.

Lucy took his hand in hers, running her thumb slowly, tenderly, back and forth across the scars on his knuckles. “That’s all I’m doing, lover,” she said. “Helping you with your research. Someday, and it won’t be long, you’re going to go places without me—and I’d hate for it to be the first time. …”

CHAPTER 19

Lafayette Johnson ran over a clueless armadillo and had a near miss with a smug possum by the time he crossed the Jack County line at five minutes past one o’clock in the morning. He’d sung “Come Monday,” “Margaritaville,” and every other Jimmy Buffett song he could think of. Twice. He was just happy to be out hunting bad men—even if that meant something as mundane as distributing sketches of Ricky Lee Pink. Running on sheer giddiness, he started in on Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.” It was a hard one to sing even if you understood all the words—which he did not.

Here he was, by all accounts a know-nothing, sorry sack of mediocre, wearing a badge and carrying a gun, not to mention out after midnight solving murders. His mother had ordered him some cool business cards with the Parker County SO star on the corner. He’d used a little strip of Scotch Tape to stick one to the center of his steering wheel so he could look down and see it every once in a while. It was good to remind himself he was the real deal and not a pimple-faced kid at Weatherford High School anymore. Pretty heady stuff for a guy barely old enough to buy his own bullets.

But fatigue eventually crept in, and the giddiness began to wear off.

Johnson yawned and grabbed the steering wheel harder, rocking forward and back, singing louder. He needed a cup of coffee. Much of his trip was on farm-to-market roads, few streetlights and all but deserted this time of night. There was no moon, leaving him alone with the faint glow of the dashboard and his only view of theoutside world the finite little piece of real estate illuminated by the Caprice’s headlights.

He’d made a big loop, starting with Palo Pinto, then working south and east to hit Hood and Johnson Counties, finally catching Deputy Ben Stillwater with Tarrant County Sheriff’s Office as he drove north through Fort Worth. He’d taken Highway 199 through the tiny berg of Springtown and on into Wise County, where he’d dropped copies of the sketch with the midnight shift road toad.

Each deputy would pass along copies of the sketch to their surrounding counties, greatly expanding the scope of the search. Conventional wisdom said cold-blooded murderers would have quit the country by now, but these bozos had broken into Ray Gene Bryant’s place, indicating they were hanging around for some reason. One thing was for sure: People like that would not hesitate to kill again.

It was almost one thirty by the time Johnson turned off State Highway 199 onto FM 2210 and made a three-point U-turn to face the highway intersection. Gary Ewell, his friend and former classmate at the regional law enforcement academy in Arlington, was supposed to meet him here. The narrow two-lane had no shoulder to speak of, so Johnson pulled over on the grass to wait.

The elder of the two deputies by five years, Ewell was the top shot of their class. Johnson was consistently average. They’d remained close friends after graduation, trauma bonding over the special hell that was field training. Both were on their own now, and often compared notes over the phone. Johnson looked forward to catching up for a few minutes, then heading for home before he turned into a pumpkin.

Another armadillo trundled along the edge of the road—daring someone to run over him—but there was no sign of Ewell.

Johnson called out on the radio.

“Parker County 68 to Jack County 9; 10-20?”

Nothing.

Johnson drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel and watched the armadillo hustle into the tall grass. Nothing hustled quite like an armadillo.

There was zero traffic out at this time of the night, but Johnson made sure he was well off the road before he turned off theengine. He killed the headlights and rolled down his window, letting the call of crickets and night birds wash over him with the warm Texas air. The old Caprice ticked and popped as it began to cool.

Ewell was beyond dependable. He must have gotten a call.

Johnson grabbed the mic off his dash and started to call again, but his friend beat him to the punch.

“Jack County 9, Dispatch. I’ll be out approximately a mile north of Wizard Wells Cemetery with suspicious lights. It’s that field where we got those trespassing complaints last week.”

“Ten-four, 9,” the dispatcher said. Johnson recognized her as Dawn Hatcher, Ewell’s girlfriend. She’d been at their graduation.

“Jack 9 to Parker 68. Sorry I’m late, bud. I’ll head your way shortly.”

Johnson glanced at his watch. One thirty-eight. He keyed the mic again.

“Lights? Are you thinking cattle theft?”

“Maybe,” Ewell said. “They’re out on some private property running along the West Fork of the Trinity River. It feeds into the lake there. More likely kids going down to party.”