Heather Graham - The Unseen

“I’m told I have a choice.”

“You do. You have time to think about this.”

“What time? Captain, do you know what’s been going on? And if I’m so damned good at this kind of thing, why the hell didn’t I know?”

“The FBI has just shared its information,” Bentley said. “We’re in process of analyzing it, and supplying them with whatever info we can find. Every law enforcement agency in the area will be on the hunt now. But, Logan, you…”

Bentley’s voice trailed off. Bentley’s voice never trailed off. Logan knew they were both thinking about the same thing—what had happened with Alana.

“The Rangers have changed over the years, Raintree,” Bentley said, recovering his voice. “We’re a true law enforcement agency under the Texas Department of Safety. You know as well as I do that we’re actually older than Texas as a republic, a state, a Confederate state and a U.S. state again. Hell, when Stephen Austin organized Rangers to protect the frontier while the Anglos were first moving in, we were frontier guards, and that was our business for a long time. Then we battled the Mexican government, and the Native American tribes, and the outlaws. We kept peace on the frontier until there was no more frontier. We had our valiant moments in the sun, and we were some of Zachary Taylor’s finest troops in the Mexican-American war. At times we also acted like a law unto ourselves. Those days are over—for all their brilliance. We’re a respected law enforcement agency. We serve a higher god, you might say. And that’s the thing, Logan. No matter how you look at it, we’re part of the greater good.”

He had neatly sidestepped the real conversation.

Alana.

Logan remained silent.

“Logan, the feds have way more power than I can ever have or give,” he said in a resigned voice. “And this team the government wants to set up—it has a direct connection to the most powerful law enforcement men in the country. Anything that can be done within constitutional limits will be done. Warrants achieved at all hours of the day or night. In any city, any state of the Union. The right to cross geographical boundaries to chase the truth. I’ve heard that the man responsible for creating these teams has the White House on speed dial. But more than that, Logan, they have what you need, and you have what they need.”

He had what they needed.

Sitting there, he suddenly felt defeated. Nothing seemed real. He’d been pretending that his life could return to normal. Playing at being a good Ranger, following the clues, investigating leads. If he didn’t think about Alana, he could look back on his life as if it were history, as distant as the events at the Alamo.

“It’s a unique opportunity,” Bentley said.

Logan didn’t have anything more to say to Bentley. Except this, “I still have time,” he said as he rose from his chair.

“Yes.”

He exited the office, pausing at the door to turn around. “Thanks, Captain.”

“Raintree, you’re a great officer. I’ll be sorry to lose you.”

Logan didn’t deny that Bentley had lost him. But he wasn’t sure yet. He’d know in the morning.

* * *

Kelsey couldn’t decide where to go.

Her mind was spinning. She should get back to the Longhorn, log on to her computer and look up everything she could find on Jackson Crow and Adam Harrison and the Krewe of Hunters. But she wasn’t ready to go back yet; she wasn’t ready for questions or even for Corey Simmons and the ghosts of a century gone.

She needed to mull over the meeting.

She parked her rental car by the Alamo. She’d taken the tour several days ago. But there was something special about the place, an aura of a certain time, the acts of men who’d changed history.

And she couldn’t forget the recording she’d just heard. Chelsea Martin at the Alamo, laughing at first, happy as she talked to a friend. Then…gone.

And now…

Dead.

She wandered aimlessly for a while, watching as a group worked with schoolchildren, reenacting what had occurred at the fort. She gathered that one man was playing the role of Davy Crockett, and another, that of twenty-six-year-old Lieutenant Colonel Travis, who’d run the battle—since his co-commander, Jim Bowie, was in bed, probably dying, and probably of tuberculosis. A few men were playing other defenders, those who hadn’t gone down in history with such giant names and reputations, but who had died there nonetheless.

She listened to them, impressed. The actors were doing a brilliant job, bringing the situation to life. The men they portrayed were tired. They spoke of day-to-day things—their meals, scouting expeditions, their exhaustion, their desire for more comfortable beds.

She was so busy watching them that she hardly noticed when a man sat next to her. Then she caught sight of him in her peripheral vision, and became instantly aware. Perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised, but she was.

There was no mistaking Logan Raintree. The best of many cultures had mixed in his face, a face as cleanly sculpted as a marble bust, with high broad cheekbones and a determined chin. He wasn’t beautiful, but he was one of the most imposing men she’d ever met. The ever-simmering energy within him added a vitality and heat that made him even more intriguing, more attractive.

Seductive. She immediately tried to wipe that thought from her mind.

She didn’t speak but gazed at him solemnly. He’d known she was there. He hadn’t walked away when he saw her. Quite the opposite—he’d joined her.

She was almost shocked when he smiled at her. “I’d like to apologize, Marshal O’Brien. I’ve been an ass.”

She smiled in response. “Um, apology accepted. Except…you weren’t that bad,” she said with a laugh.

“What made you come here?” he asked her.

She shrugged. “It’s not that far from the Longhorn, where I’m staying. I wasn’t ready to go back and answer a bunch of questions about the meeting. I needed time.”

He nodded, looking toward the chapel. “I wondered if you’d come here because this is where Chelsea Martin was last seen.”

“It might’ve had something to do with that.”

“You going to accept Jackson Crow’s offer?” he asked her.

“I…don’t know. Maybe. You?”

“This morning, I would’ve given him a definite no. Now…I’m not sure. Either way, I want to find out what there is to see at the morgue tomorrow.”

She felt a tightening inside. Yes. The morgue.

They were both silent for a minute. Then he began to speak, his tone relaxed.

“The Alamo’s a shrine,” he said softly. “Of course, it’s different than it was at the time of the battle. The chapel and this area—including the long barracks—was just a small part of the original Alamo,” Logan explained. “The walls extended for a quarter of a mile. In fact, that was one of the problems for the defenders once Santa Anna’s men breeched the walls—the place was too big to protect easily. The men who fought here fought hard, and they fought knowing they were likely to die.” He glanced at her. “Courage is being afraid—and going ahead, anyway.”

Kelsey nodded in agreement.

“Santa Anna had his men raise a red flag in a nearby church tower, and that bloodred flag indicated there’d be no quarter given. But, of course, the Alamo was part of a bigger story, and like most history, it depends on who is doing the telling. The Spanish had been in control. They’d signed a treaty ceding Florida to the U.S. and creating a boundary between the United States and Spanish America. But before that, men called impresarios, Stephen Austin among them, had been luring Americans into Texas with land grants that required no down payment. Then the Mexicans fought the Spanish for independence and won. Santa Anna become president, or more accurately, dictator. Texians or Anglo-Americans, and Tejanos, Mexican-Texans, had been living under the Constitution of 1824 until Santa Anna rescinded it and pretty much pissed them all off.”