Джеймс Паттерсон - Texas Outlaw

I have no appetite.

I take a long, hot shower, then grab a Shiner Bock from the refrigerator and go sit on the porch. The pine boards feel good on my bare feet. It’s dusk, and there’s a hell of a Texas sunset in front of me. The whole landscape has a sharp golden hue, and the clouds in the sky look like they’re on fire.

I take one sip of the beer and it hits my empty stomach like acid. I dump the rest over the porch railing into the grass and set the empty bottle at my feet.

This isn’t my first time shooting someone, but it never gets easier. One minute, I feel like I could throw up. The next, I feel like I could break down crying. Instead, I just sit there and think. These were bad guys—identified as ex-felons with long rap sheets. Still, I took their lives to get the people in the bank out of harm’s way. But I can’t imagine a scenario in which I would have been okay watching those men take that teenage girl hostage.

I could not have let that happen.

I’ve had a complicated relationship with God—the violence I’ve seen can make me question God’s existence—but today I say a little prayer of thanks for the safety of the innocent folks in that bank. And I say thanks for the bullet that passed through my Stetson, that its path wasn’t any lower.

A faint orange glow remains on the horizon. Stars have begun to populate the darkening sky. I go inside to get my guitar, figuring if anything will clear my mind, playing will. Concentrating on the notes, focusing on the lyrics, doing something I love—that’s the medicine I need right now.

But when I get inside, I see my phone is full of missed calls and text messages. Family and friends are wanting to check on me, but I’m not in the mood to talk. There’s nothing from Willow. She’s on tour with Dierks Bentley, and she has a show in Sacramento tonight.

There is one message that catches my eye. My old lieutenant, Ted Creasy, sent me a text that says, Call me, partner.

I do.

“I’ve got bad news and bad news,” he says. “Which one do you want first?”

Chapter 5

“AREN’T YOU SUPPOSED to be retired?” I tell Creasy.

“Yeah,” he says, “but I still got my ear to the floor. People tell me stuff.”

As we’re talking, I step out into the grass, feel the cool blades on my bare feet. Fireflies light up around me in the dark. I can hear insects chirping in the distance. I could have died today—and that perspective makes it hard to be worried about whatever Creasy has to say.

He tells me that the higher-ups in the Texas Ranger Division are happy with my performance today. From the major who oversees my company to the chief of the whole division, everyone agrees I couldn’t have handled the situation any better.

“They’re happier than pigs in shit,” Creasy says.

“I thought you said you had bad news.”

“I do,” Creasy says. “While everybody’s tickled pink about you, they’re mad as hell at Kyle.”

My stomach sinks.

“He’s napping in the truck while you’re in there taking on two bad guys all by yourself.”

“There’s nothing he could have done,” I say. “No way he could have known.”

What I’m saying is true. But public perception is something else entirely.

Your everyday Ranger can typically fly under the public radar, but once you’re a lieutenant, you’re kind of a public figure.

“What’s the media coverage been like?” I ask.

The way to know if a news story is going to get airplay is if there’s video of it, plain and simple. If someone took a cell-phone video of a firefighter saving a cat from a tree, that story will get a hundred times more airplay than someone saving a school bus full of children if there were no amateur videographers around to witness it.

“That’s the other bit of bad news,” Creasy says. “Somebody leaked the security footage of what happened inside the bank.”

If my stomach sank before, now it plummets.

“It’s gone viral,” Creasy says. “Hell, there’re half a million hits on YouTube already.”

“Jesus,” I mutter. “No one needs to see that.”

Creasy says the news stations are warning viewers about the violent subject matter before they air the video on repeat.

“You’re gonna be a bona fide media hero,” Creasy says. “The switchboard at headquarters can’t handle all the calls. I bet the Today show or Good Morning America tries to get you on there. No way the chief lets that happen, but it’s a shit show down at headquarters, that’s for sure.”

I feel sick. Even more sick than I did before.

I walk back over to the porch and plop down in my chair. On the surface, this shouldn’t seem like such bad news. As long as no one thinks I did anything wrong, I’m not in any danger of being reprimanded. It might be good publicity for the Rangers. But the bottom line is, I just don’t want the attention.

Last year, I was connected to a series of high-profile murders. The first victim was my ex-wife, Anne, who—up until then anyway—was the love of my life. Once the case was solved, my name was all over the papers, and the headlines weren’t always good. I’d earned a reputation for being a hothead willing to bend—or even break—the rules.

Ever since, I’ve been trying to keep my head down, follow the rules, be the best Ranger I can be.

“I hope like hell no one’s shown that video to Willow,” I tell Creasy.

As if the universe could hear our conversation, an incoming call buzzes in my ear.

It’s Willow.

“I gotta go,” I tell Creasy.

When I pick up, Willow is crying on the other end.

Chapter 6

“ARE YOU OKAY?” Willow says, barely able to talk through her sobs.

I admit that I’m shaken up and a bit numb, but I assure her I’m unharmed.

Willow says that when she finished her set in Sacramento, one of the crew said, “Hey, is this your Texas Ranger boyfriend?” and shoved an iPad in her face. Without knowing what she was getting into, she watched the video of me in the standoff.

“That guy shot the hat right off your head,” she says.

I apologize for not calling to tell her. I didn’t want her to be an emotional wreck before she had to perform.

“I have to join Dierks in fifteen minutes for a duet of ‘Long Trip Alone,’” she says. “I don’t know how I’m gonna do it. I’m shaking like a leaf.”

“You can do it,” I say. “You’re a professional.”

The first time I ever saw Willow was when she was onstage. It was in a roadhouse bar, not a big concert venue, but she had a magnetism that was undeniable. She’s a looker, no doubt about it, with blond hair and curves in all the right places. But what I loved about her the most was her voice. She sounds like Carrie Underwood—and can hit the same notes—but there’s also a raspy undertone to her voice that’s sexy as hell.

I think I fell in love with her the first time I saw her perform. Whether it was love at first sight or love at first sound, I can’t be sure.

Willow’s not a fragile person—she’s one of the toughest people I’ve ever met—but she just watched me not only come close to dying but also kill two people.

I can tell she’s starting to pull herself together. I think she just needed to hear my voice.

“How was the show?” I ask, trying to divert the conversation away from death.

She fills me in on the latest in her life. After tonight’s concert, there’s a break in the tour, and she’ll be flying back to Nashville to record the final songs for the album.

“Any chance you can come visit?” she says.

In theory, I could. I’ll be on leave for at least a few days, maybe a few weeks. Any time a Ranger is involved in a shooting, there’s a period of investigation. But I know what will happen if I fly to Nashville. Willow will be so busy we won’t get to spend any quality time together. She’ll have late-night recording sessions or be asked to visit one promotional event after another. With her debut album on the horizon, she pretty much needs to do everything she’s asked these days.