J. Black - The Survivors Club

“Lucky Lohrke,” she said.

“Who?”

“Just a guy. Look, I’ve got to go. Can we talk later?”

“Sure.”

Tess knew he sounded a little put off, but that didn’t matter. She loved Max.

Scratch that. She was in love with Max.

She walked back to her car.

Tess turned onto the freeway going west. Thinking about DeKoven.

Not Michael DeKoven.

Quentin DeKoven.

She could see it on the page, as she had a few days ago.

“In 1999, Quentin DeKoven was the lone survivor of a single-engine plane crash in northern Arizona. After dragging the dying pilot nearly three miles through rugged country and spending the night in frigid temperatures, DeKoven was found by the search team, nearly dead from exposure.

“He lost two fingers on one hand and a foot to frostbite.”

She saw the words. She remembered the sun beaming down on the page. She knew what she was wearing, knew the side street she’d pulled into, knew the time of day.

“In a cruel twist of fate, Quentin DeKoven died in 2005 when his private plane abruptly lost altitude and crashed into a wilderness area in the Pinaleño Mountains, six years after he survived a similar incident in 1999.”

Quentin DeKoven had survived a private plane crash that should have killed him.

Six years later, he’d died in another.

He wasn’t the only one who’d dodged the Reaper.

Tess flashed on Steve Barkman’s self-satisfied grin. The cat-that-ate-the-canary grin when he asked her about George Hanley’s death.

How many times was he shot?

The question hadn’t made any sense when he’d asked it. Why was he obsessed with the number of shots?

Now she knew: George Hanley was shot six times the first time he died. Yes—died. His daughter Pat had told her he “died on the operating table.” He’d died and been revived.

There were similarities.

That first morning, waking up, Tess had thought of that baseball player in the magazine, Lucky Lohrke. Lucky Lohrke, who was bumped off a flight back to the States at the end of World War II. Lucky Lohrke, who was traded to another team and got off the bus before it crashed and burned on a snowy mountain.

Lucky.

George Hanley had been lucky. He’d survived death on the operating table.

Later, he won the lottery.

But after that, all these years later, his luck had run out.

She called Danny. “Remember the DVD George Hanley had in his apartment? You found it, the second pass through?”

“ The Ultimate Survivor show.”

“That’s it. The show he was featured on.”

“Yeah, the one that’s on the History Channel.”

“Have you watched it yet?”

“Yeah, I watched it the other day. It was kind of hokey. You know how they have to catch people up with the story after the commercials, just in case somebody new is watching?”

“Repetitive, I know,” Tess said. “When did the show air?”

“I’ll have to go look at my notes. Call you back.”

Ten minutes later, he did.

“It was last season.”

“What month?”

“November. Why?”

“I’ve got a theory, but that’s all it is.”

“Care to share?”

“I will after I look into it some more. Right now it’s just a wild hare.”

“Hey. Shoot it, skin it, put it in the pot with some mole and let’s have a feast.”

Tess saw Steve Barkman again, his head through the coffee table. The man who had blazed the trail for her.

He’d been investigating Michael DeKoven.

She had three men here: George Hanley, Alec Sheppard, and the patriarch of the DeKoven family, Quentin DeKoven.

Quentin DeKoven survived a plane crash in 1999.

Quentin DeKoven died in another plane crash in 2005.

Alec Sheppard’s parachute failed in Florida a year and a half ago.

Alec Sheppard’s parachute failed in Houston in March 2013.

George Hanley was shot in Phoenix in 1991.

George Hanley was shot to death in Credo in April 2013.

Only Alec Sheppard survived, and that was because he had help.

In all of these cases, there was one common denominator.

Michael DeKoven .

CHAPTER 23

Jaimie Wolfe’s place was buttoned up. There were no little girls on big horses prancing around the ring. Jaimie’s Dodge Ram was gone. The only vehicle on the property was the old ranch truck.

Tess heard a vehicle slow down on the road and turn in, rumbling over the cattle guard but hidden by a copse of trees near the entrance. Tess watched as the truck appeared, shadows from the trees scrolling over the hood.

A Ford—not Jaimie’s Dodge Ram—a recent-model Ford F-350. If it wasn’t covered up past the wheel-wells in mud, the truck would be white—typical for working trucks in Arizona.

White deflected the heat.

The driver was thick-bodied but not fat and looked to be in his early fifties. He wore jeans, boots, and a snap-button long-sleeved shirt. Pink face, sun-peeled nose, aviator sunglasses, straw Stetson.

Rancher.

“Hey,” the man called out, slamming the door of his truck and walking toward her. “You a friend of Jaimie’s?”

Tess introduced herself and asked who he was. He hitched his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans, framing his rodeo belt buckle, and breathed in the spring air. Taking stock of the place with a country smile. “Names’s Barnes,” he said, “Dave Barnes.” He shook her hand with his big mitt. He wore a Super Bowl–type ring that would have dwarfed another man’s hand. “Jaimie asked me to look after her livestock while she was gone.”

“Gone? Do you know where?”

He screwed up his face. “Didn’t say. Just took off—I gather she was in a hurry and she wanted me to feed the livestock. So you’re with Santa Cruz County?” He added, spotting the shield on her belt. “Nobody broke in here, did they?”

“Not that I know of.”

He strolled over to Jaimie’s porch. “Jaimie’s a little slack on security. I told her that. She leaves her key right here.” He lifted a plant in a pot on the porch and picked up a set of keys in the saucer underneath. Opened the door to wagging tails and slavering tongues. “Hey there!” he said as the dogs funneled out of the house.

Adele was among them.

“You want to come in?”

“No, thanks,” Tess said. She would need a warrant if she did—and who knew what might happen down the road. She didn’t want to hurt a potential criminal case because of the “fruit of the poisoned tree.” But she did peer around him at the inside. It looked the same as it did the last time she was here.

“Jaimie has business with the law?” the man asked.

“I wanted to talk to her. Are you a member of SABEL by any chance?”

“SABEL? Nah. That’s a little too environmentalist for me.” He scratched his neck. “You think that they’re doin’ any good? Seems like a hopeless cause to me. There’s just too damn much of that g.d. grass.”

“Did you ever meet a friend of hers named George Hanley?”

He thought about it. “Nope, don’t believe I had the pleasure. Who’s George Hanley?”

“He also belonged to SABEL. Did you hear about the man killed down Credo?”

“Old guy got himself shot up?”

“That’s the one.”

He looked down and kicked at a clod of dirt. “A real shame. Heard it was illegals or cartels—damn, it’s getting so bad. Shooting people up and cutting heads off and burning folks…I sure do hope he rests in peace.”

“How would you describe Jaimie Wolfe?”

“Let’s see…one hot babe.” He grinned. “Not that she’d notice me. Good on a horse. Like a horse whisperer, you heard of them? She’s always been nice to me.”