Джеймс Паттерсон - Texas Outlaw

I chuckle. “So you know all about me, I guess.”

“Not everything,” Dale says, grinning. “We don’t know if you can sing worth a damn, but we aim to find out.”

Chapter 24

DALE STARTS PLAYING the recognizable opening chords of Johnny Cash’s “I Walk the Line.” Walt plays the snare drum with a wire brush to keep the same scratchy background beat you hear on Cash’s version. I join in on guitar. Dale sings the first verse. He was right—he’s not much of a vocalist. When it comes time for the second verse, he nods to me, and I sing it. He defers to me and lets me sing the rest. In the original recording, Cash changes the key of his vocals, and the last verse is almost a full octave lower than the first. I don’t sound anything like Johnny Cash, but I do my best to lower my voice as the song progresses.

Dale and Walt both notice and appreciate the effort.

“Hot damn, boy,” Dale says. “You ain’t half bad.”

I sing the rest of the night. We play George Strait, Tim McGraw, Blake Shelton, and Eric Church. We don’t just stick to guys’ songs, either—we play a couple of Dixie Chicks tunes and have a good laugh rolling through Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5.”

Dale is a heck of a guitar player, much more than just the rhythm guy he made himself out to be. And Walt, as Dale said, can play pretty much anything. Through the two hours we spend playing together, he rotates among guitar, banjo, fiddle, and drum. He even breaks out the harmonica when we play Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again.”

As personalities go, Dale is gregarious and fun to be around, with a comfortable air and an infectious laugh. Walt is much more demure, letting his instruments do the talking for him.

They’re both talented musicians, but I hold my own with them. I sing and play and feel like a kid again practicing in my buddy Daryl’s basement after school. I’m surprised by how much fun I have and forget that I wanted to ask them some questions until they’re putting their instruments back in their cases.

“So what did you guys hear about me?” I ask them, trying to make it sound like small talk. “Why I’m here?”

Dale says he works with Skip Barnes, and Walt works with Alex Hartley, the football coach. Both have heard what I’ve been investigating.

“You’re a lucky man,” Dale says to me.

“Why’s that?”

“’Cause you get to work with Ariana Delgado,” he says and whistles through his teeth. “Man, I’ve had a crush on her since high school.”

“He’s dating Willow Dawes,” Walt chimes in. “Have you seen a picture of her?”

“You’re doubly lucky,” Dale says to me.

“Did either of you know Susan Snyder?” I ask.

“Sure.” Dale shrugs. “Hell, everybody knows everybody in this town. But I didn’t know her well.”

“I voted for her,” Walt says, “but I never actually talked to her.”

“What do you think of the guys who were dating her?” I say. “Skip and Alex.”

“I don’t know if I’d use the word dating, ” Dale says.

There it is, I think. Confirmation that people knew she was sleeping around .

“She and Alex was just friends is all,” Dale says. “And I don’t know what she was doing hanging around with Skip. He’s a buddy of mine, but she was way out of his league.”

I’m not sure how far to push this, but I say, “He claims they were sleeping together. Friends with benefits, I guess you’d call it.”

Dale laughs. “I doubt Skip Barnes has been with any woman outside a Juárez brothel.”

“What about Alex?” I say. “He made the same claim.”

Dale and Walt exchange a look that I can’t read.

“Like I said, I always thought they was just friends. What they did on their own time ain’t none of my business.”

With that, the two pack up and climb into Dale’s truck.

“That was fun,” Dale says out the window. “Let’s do it again sometime.”

I give them a wave as they pull out of the lot and then I stand on my porch, thinking.

Earlier today, I thought Skip Barnes was hiding something. Now I think Alex Hartley might have been as well.

And when I think of the look they gave each other, I think my new friends, Dale Peters and Walt Mitchell, are hiding something, too.

Does everyone in this town have secrets?

Chapter 25

I’M DREAMING. I know I am.

But I can’t wake myself up.

I’m back in the bank, with the robber standing on the counter with the AR-15 and the other holding a handgun to my head. Just like before, I drop to my knees as my hat is blasted off my head. I raise my SIG Sauer, aim it at the robber on the counter, and squeeze the trigger. But this time nothing happens.

I miss.

The robber squeezes the trigger of the AR-15 and begins cutting down the customers in the bank. There is no sound. Not from the bullets jumping from the gun barrel. Not from the men and women collapsing in mists of blood, their mouths open in silent screams.

I know I should shoot again.

I have to stop him.

But I’m panicking.

I turn my head slowly—everything seems to be in slow motion—and look at the other robber. His gun is aimed at my face. I stare into the black hole of the barrel.

I should move. I should shoot. I should do something.

But I don’t.

He squeezes the trigger, and I sit up in bed, my chest heaving, my body slick with sweat. I throw a hand to my face, half expecting to find a bullet hole in my forehead.

When I’ve convinced myself that I’m okay, I rise out of bed and walk to the bathroom. I leave the light off, but my curtain is cracked and there’s enough light coming in from the parking lot to see. I splash water on my face. I cup my hands and take a drink.

I walk back to my bed and check the time on my phone. It’s two o’clock in the morning. I wish I could talk to Willow, but there’s no way she’ll be awake. And maybe that’s not the best idea anyway. She’s already worried about me. She didn’t like the idea of me going back to work so soon after the shooting.

Now I’m starting to agree with her—maybe I’m not ready.

This case has been a little more trying on my nerves than I anticipated. A few days have passed since I jammed with Dale and Walt, with Ariana and me working long hours and making almost no progress. We’ve interviewed all the town council members as well as all the people who saw Susan Snyder in her final days. We’ve done a million phone interviews, talking to her family members and her clients in faraway cities. Sometimes motive is irrelevant—the evidence is what matters. But in this case, we have no evidence.

I’m sitting in my bed, in my dark room, thinking about all this, when I hear something outside my door. Voices talking low, trying to be quiet. The fact that I can hear them at all tells me they’re very close. I hear a sound like someone spraying an aerosol can.

Maybe spray paint.

I creep over to the window and peek through the crack in the curtains. Two men stand next to my truck. One is kneeling by a tire. The other is standing next to the driver’s side, spraying the door with paint. As far as I can tell, both are wearing masks, just like the guys in my nightmare.

I grab my pistol and unlatch the safety chain on the door as quietly as possible. I’m wearing boxer shorts and nothing else, but I don’t have time to get dressed.

I throw open the door and point my gun.

“Freeze!” I say, my voice raised but not yelling.

My body is inside the room, but my gun hand is sticking out. This is a careless mistake because I haven’t anticipated that there might be a third guy with them, hiding next to my door.

A tire iron swings down from behind the door jamb. I pull my hand back but not fast enough. The iron connects with the barrel of my SIG Sauer, and I feel the vibrations up to my shoulder.