Page 77 of Backtrack

“Why can’t you brief me?”

“We need to keep this off the air,” Cutter said. “I’ll already be in the car.”

“Listen, Wayne,” Smith said. “I want you to—”

“Trust me, Chief,” Cutter said. “We need to do it this way. Find a phone as quick as you can and call Garza.” Then, into the phone again, “You still there?”

“I’m here.”

“The Foster place is a couple of miles outside of Peaster, right?”

“Right,” Johnson said. “Northwest, toward Adell.”

“Okay. There’s a good chance we know where these bastards are heading next. I’m going to get rolling toward Sunshine Lake. Smith’s gonna call you in a minute. When he does, I need you to tell him my plan. …”

CHAPTER 31

DWayne Cutter hardly reduced his speed as he slid through the turn off FM 920 toward Sunshine Lake—a one-hundred-and-fifty-acre woodland park tucked in between the railroad right-of-way and Parker County ranchland dotted with pockets of elm and oak. Though still in the city limits of Weatherford, the jungle-like tangle of trees and wild grape vines at the west end of the lake made it feel like the edge of the wilderness. The thick foliage along the creek bottom offered dozens of shadowed spots to hide a vehicle.

Chief Smith would be loading up his horses and heading toward the park in the next half hour—if it came to that.

Ricky Pink and his buddy, Duvall, were on the run, but greed had made them stick around to find the missing diamonds. It was astounding how an outlaw could feel such ownership over something they’d stolen from somebody else. Cutter doubted either of them had the patience to deal with horses under these circumstances. No, they’d stash their vehicle in the trees and hoof it to the shack.

If Cutter’s hunch was correct, they’d want to lay low after murdering poor Trina Foster. He’d either find the outlaws’ vehicle hidden at the other end of the lake or he’d get there ahead of them—and wait.

Cutter slowed a hair as he passed the small gravel lot on his left at the east end of the thirty-acre lake. To the south, a couple of kids walked along the top of the earth-and-concrete dam, fishing polesand tackle boxes in hand, silhouetted against the blue sky. The area beyond was a mixture of limestone shelf and pockets of marsh turned brown from iron and sulfur in the water. The memories came flooding back. He’d taught Bodie to swim in this lake. Lucy, a hell of an angler, had helped the boy learn to catch bluegill off that very dam. Cutter had tromped the creek bottoms when he was a boy with his own grandfather, hunting squirrel and deer and wild turkey. There were panthers then, venturing into Texas on their great walkabouts from Mexico. Bushwhacking through the brush with nothing but a .410 shotgun when there was something out there large enough to eat him had been exhilarating. Like now.

He scanned the road ahead.

Three women in swimsuits fanned themselves in folding lawn chairs while a mob of children squealed and splashed with cheap plastic air mattresses in the shallow water of the boat ramp to his left. A couple of teenage boys practiced diving off the rickety wooden dock a hundred yards down. At the west end of the lake, he passed the road that climbed a squat hill to the pavilion and picnic tables that overlooked the west end of the lake. A gnarled thicket of Osage orange and cottonwood trees blocked his view of the small dead end parking lot. Pink would have been foolish to get himself trapped in there.

Pavement turned to gravel a hundred yards later and then petered out completely well before the creek bottom, giving way to an open field of sunburned native grasses mowed short by crews from the city parks. Telltale tire tracks ran over dirt and stubble toward tall stands of Johnson grass and oak scrub closer to the creek. Cutter slowed to a crawl as he left the road to bounce across the uneven field. He rolled down his window, intending to make a wide arc, checking for vehicles in the thickets.

Grasshoppers ticked away like rattle cans in all directions in front of his oncoming patrol car. He caught the outline of a vehicle grill to his left and turned in for a closer look. It turned out to be an ancient Plymouth Valiant, windows shattered, body riddled with bullet holes where kids had used it for target practice.

He’d just driven past when Lafayette Johnson’s frantic voice poured out of the radio.

“Parker County 68! Roll units toward Sunshine Lake! I got a blackChevy dually turning in off Peaster Highway. Two white males. Possible armored car robbery suspect Richard Lee Pink. They’re—”

The radio fell silent.

Cutter cut his wheel hard and stomped the throttle, swinging around the back end of his Caprice on the scabby field. He held his breath, willing Johnson to say more.

The radio crackled again.

“I’m behind the black dually!” Johnson said. He gave the license plate number, then, “We’re coming into the park now. Coming at you, Cutter—” The radio fell silent for a long moment. Then, “Driver did a one-eighty. Heading right for me … Well, shit, this is gonna—” Cutter poured on the gas, resisting the urge to jump on the radio. Johnson might need it.

Ricky Lee checked his seat belt as Duvall brought the big pickup around in a skittering 180-degree turn. He braced his hands on the door and dash.

“What the hell?”

Duvall scrunched down in his seat, both hands on the wheel. He was closing fast on the oncoming patrol car.

“You’re gonna kill us both!” Pink yelled.

“Relax!” Duvall said, though he sounded far from relaxed himself. Thankfully, the deputy sheriff swerved right at the last moment. The much heavier one-ton truck clipped the patrol car’s rear wheel, spinning it like a top. Unfortunately, Duvall momentarily lost control of the pickup and they careened into the ditch, bouncing wildly across the gravel parking lot that served as a trailhead for the dam.

Pink glanced in his side mirror to see steam pouring from the cop car’s hood. The engine whined. Metal squealed as the warped rear tire chewed the crumpled fender. Going nowhere, the deputy flung open his door and jumped out, revolver in hand.