Angi Morgan - Ranger Defender

Saying yes to one of Wade’s hunches was usually easy. Hell, this particular ranger had a long line of successful hunches that had played out with many a bad man behind bars. Slate opened the file. He had to admit that he wanted to help.

“You’d be on your own most of the time, buddy,” Wade said from the next desk. “Of course, if I’m wrong, then there’s nothing to do anyway.”

Slate nodded, contemplating. Breaking the rules really wasn’t his thing. Then again, he’d wanted to be in law enforcement to help people...not knowingly send an innocent man to jail.

Yeah, there was a chance that Wade was wrong. But when the man went with his gut, he just rarely was.

“I’ll do it.”

“Why does your intonation hold a giant but at the end?”

“Maybe because there is one. I want the story of why you’re sitting at this desk instead of on current cases.”

“You interview Vivian Watts—Victor’s sister—and you’ll get it.”

“That was easy.” But there had to be a catch. The smile on his friend’s face was mixed with sadness. Totally not like him.

“Not as easy as you think. Watts’s sister moved to Dallas and has been proclaiming his innocence ever since.”

“This is a problem because...”

“The trial starts next week. She’s going to want to go public if the Texas Rangers are reopening the case. You’re going to have to keep her totally quiet. Still interested?”

“If I say no, you’re going straight to Heath with this, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Wade laughed, leaning back in his chair and tossing a pen next to the stack of files.

“He’s better with a computer. I’m the best investigator you’ve ever worked with. Remember?” Slate stood, grabbed the jacket from the back of his chair, shoved his arms through and stuffed his hat on his head for emphasis.

“I think we’re remembering that conversation differently. But I’ll let you have your exit, Mr. Best Investigator.”

Slate left the offices, with Wade’s laughter echoing down the hall. He tossed the folder onto the seat of his truck, questioning what he’d just committed himself to. The page of the doctor’s notes with the evidence notations he’d read earlier stuck out in his memory:

Other entries in this handwritten journal end with a summary of each subject’s treatment—if any—along with instructions for other staff members. The treatment summary portion of Subject Nineteen’s entry is missing. As in not written or torn from the journal.

Blood spatter pattern indicates the journal was open to Subject Nineteen’s page and the deceased was seated at her desk, even though the body was moved to and posed in the chair normally occupied for sessions.

A slash from right to left, indicates a left-handed upward movement, which severed the right jugular. Force is consistent with a person standing behind the victim.

One case could ruin a ranger’s career or come close to it. Just like Wade. Was he willing to risk it? Was he willing to break the rules for someone he didn’t know?

Yes.

Hell, did his career actually compare with the lifetime he’d wanted to protect the innocent?

No.

His adrenaline was pumping for once, ready to help someone in need.

Chapter Two

Planning the perfect death wasn’t easy, but she wanted one. It was the only way. Abby read the doctor’s diagnosis and recommendations every morning. It was in her bedside table drawer, tucked away from the world but in exactly the same place for her daily routine.

She awoke, showered, dressed for her day and read the report as her tea brewed. She might be groggy from a poor night’s sleep, but she still put in her contacts and read the torn sheet of notepaper from the journal.

It took her the same number of minutes to read the other papers she’d collected. Three diagnoses over three years from three different cities. Her tea would be ready for a dash of lemon to help her concentrate.

Holistic remedies suited her much better than the prescriptions she’d used since her twenties. Stopping the input of chemicals into her body was the best thing she’d ever done.

It was so freeing.

Her mind could think on multiple levels like it hadn’t for the past several years. She sipped the last bit of her tea with her blueberry tea biscuit. More brain energy and antioxidants. She’d need to be on her toes this morning for the next phase of her experiment.

Killing Dr. Roberts had been eye-opening. An epiphany of sorts. Abby no longer was held back by perfectionism. Her death demonstrated it was no longer necessary. The good doctor’s analysis had allowed her to move forward last year. Finding the perfect form of death would take practice, yes. But the doctor’s death had provided enlightenment—of a sort.

If she couldn’t perfect the act of death herself, she’d enlist others to help in her research. Simple enough.

She covered her lips and giggled, ready for her day of research to begin. She couldn’t say that she loved this day each week. As Dr. Roberts pointed out, the unfortunate attachment disorder kept her from loving anything. But this day gave her a bit of excitement to look forward to. Moving toward the completion of a project should give a normal person a sense of accomplishment.

And she was so close.

The alarm went off on her phone. She gathered her things from the hall table. Purse, lunch and then the clean surgical gloves and mask from their dispensers. She walked to the door and stood there waiting for it to open, then reminded herself that she had the right to open it when she wanted.

Four years away from the prison they called a hospital and she still had moments where she forgot she was free to move as she wished. It was less than a minute of her life every now and again, but she resented every wasted second it took to force herself to reach out and turn the doorknob.

Thinking about her habits, she crossed the parking lot and climbed the steps to wait under the awning. Dwelling on the idea that her quirks were odd was a waste of time. That’s what had sent her to Dr. Roberts to begin with.

A mistake. But a corrected mistake. Using Victor Watts had been an uncontrollable moment of fury. Talking to him before his test had always been nice. Pity because he seemed perfect for the ultimate experiment.

Taking a job at the Veterans Affairs Hospital eighteen months ago had been a moment of brilliance. Her father’s attorney had used very little energy to convince the owner of a pathetic little box of a house on Denley Drive to sell. She would have preferred to continue living in the five-star hotel. Her parents could afford it. Instead, her parents insisted things would be better if she didn’t.

At least the new house had a specific and organized place designed to meet her more than rational needs. And if she wasn’t allowed to drive, walking across the parking lot to the Dallas Area Rapid Transit station was at least convenient. The last time she’d met with her father’s attorney, he joked how fitting it was that the two stores nearby were a pharmacy and second-hand shop. He’d laughed at her.

The light rail arrived to take her down Lancaster Road. The job was mundane, her social life nonexistent, but it was all worth it for her research.

The Veterans Affairs Hospital gave her the subjects she needed. Broken, easily manipulated men who had the strength and the wherewithal to perform the necessary duties. Ha. Duties. They had the strength to fulfill the experiment Dr. Roberts wrote would never come to fruition.

The doctors were wrong. Everyone was wrong.

Perfection in death was possible.

So close. So so close.

Moving from this venue would be difficult. But working with this group of men and women was coming to an end.