Wildburn (A Whicher Series Novella) Read online

  Also by John Stonehouse

  The Whicher Series

  An American Outlaw

  An American Kill

  The Whicher Series Books 1 & 2

  Wildburn (A Whicher Series Novella)

  An American Bullet

  Watch for more at John Stonehouse’s site.

  Wildburn

  John Stonehouse

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by John Stonehouse

  Copyright © 2016 by John Stonehouse

  * * *

  All rights reserved.

  * * *

  John Stonehouse has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  * * *

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  Cover design by Books Covered

  Chapter One

  Motley County, TX.

  * * *

  Heat stacks above the Rolling Plains—the buffalo grass baked to tinder by a summer-long drought. Deputy US Marshal John Whicher pulls off the highway in his Chevy Silverado. The truck rolls to a halt in the dust at the side of the road.

  He lowers his window.

  In the air is the catch of burning. He sees a trail of smoke—a line of fire at the distant horizon. It's late afternoon—the wind strong, scouring the plains land, battering the sides of the truck.

  By the road is a rust-flecked name-plate, mounted on a tube steel pole. Torero, the sign reads. Population 509.

  Ninety miles north-east of Lubbock—Whicher sits behind the wheel of the Chevy, staring out of the dirt-streaked windshield. Dead men wait.

  Torero.

  A small town. A ranch community from the nineteen-thirties.

  Years back, he'd ridden through in his father's car.

  He slips his boot off the brake, hits the blinker, turns from the highway onto an asphalt strip.

  Overgrown lots are filled with shinnery oak—to the south the land is choked with prickly pear and honey mesquite. The marshal pictures the town beyond the scattering of trees; one set of stop-lights, a crossroad, a single main street.

  He steers past the few lived-in properties among the unsold lots—sees a Motley County Sheriff's cruiser parked in front of a one-floor house.

  An ambulance is alongside the cruiser, high-gloss sides reflecting a lowering sun.

  Whicher slows the Silverado, pulls over, cuts the motor.

  In the front yard of the house an officer in tan uniform surveys the road.

  Whicher glances in the rear-view mirror, runs a hand through his head of dark hair. Steady eyes look back at him—hazel, wide-set, above a broken nose. He feels for the hat on the passenger seat—picks up the dark felt Resistol, places it on his head.

  He steps from his truck, tilts the brim of the hat forward. The afternoon heat is fierce, despite the gusting wind.

  A late September sky is leaching color. The marshal buttons the jacket of his charcoal suit.

  Around the house, the neighboring properties are set well away—surrounded with big yards, cars and trucks beneath the shade of Texas live oak.

  By a black willow, a woman watches, wearing a faded cotton dress.

  The uniformed sheriff's deputy adjusts his Western hat. He starts down toward the edge of the yard.

  Whicher straightens his neck-tie, takes out his badge and ID. He turns to the woman. “Ma'am.”

  Graying hair frames her sun-brown face, her arms are folded. She nods, features barely moving—studying, the big man in the suit and hat—the busted nose—the bulge of a gun beneath the jacket.

  The sheriff's deputy checks the marshal's badge. He's raw-boned, thin as a pole. “Sheriff don't want nobody coming in here.” He jerks his head over his shoulder.

  Whicher reads the name on the man's shirt—Deputy Skilling. “I need to talk to him. Can you ask him to come on out?”

  The deputy turns, strides back toward the house.

  Whicher puts away his ID.

  “I heard it,” the woman says. “This morning. I heard the shot.”

  The marshal glances at her. “You tell that to the sheriff?”

  Her eyes are rounded. “I told him.” She takes a pace closer from beneath the shade of the willow tree. “I didn't know it was any gun shot, at the time. I live out back. Where the lane makes a loop.” She takes a hand from her elbow, pointing.

  From the corner of his eye Whicher sees Deputy Skilling walking around the side of the property.

  An older man is with him, short, squat, wearing the same tan uniform and hat. He stares down the yard. “I'm Sheriff McCoy.”

  “US Marshals Service. Y'all have a minute, I'd like to talk. ”

  The sheriff stops half way down the yard. “We have a body back here. We need to move it. What's your business, marshal?”

  Whicher takes a pace forward. “Alright if I step on up?”

  The sheriff's eyes are sharp beneath black brows, his face square, the skin etched with deep lines.

  “I'm a criminal investigator,” Whicher says. “Looking for somebody. I had word the person might be out at this address.”

  McCoy runs a knuckle against a thick eyebrow, sweat beading under his eyes.

  “A woman,” Whicher says. “A young woman. Juanita Jones.”

  “Never heard of her,” the sheriff says. “This house is owned by a guy name of Brandon Lynch.”

  Deputy Skilling turns to the neighbor.

  The woman looks back, startled.

  “How about you, Miss Bonnier?”

  She shakes her head, mouth tight shut.

  Whicher takes in the house—gutter hanging, board sides in need of a coat of paint. In the yard there's nothing but packed dirt and weed and burnt dry grass.

  “You want to step back here a minute?” the sheriff says.

  The marshal looks at him.

  Skilling hooks a thumb into his duty belt.

  McCoy turns, the deputy holds station.

  “We have to go around the side,” the sheriff calls over his shoulder.

  Whicher follows between a panel fence and trash containers at the side of the house.

  “This here's a crime scene, I won't have any evidence disturbed.”

  In the back yard, the body of a man is laying face down on the ground by the rear door of the house.

  Two paramedics wait with a gurney. A bald-headed man in a zip-suit takes a swab from a head wound on the corpse.

  The sheriff looks at Whicher. “You didn't know about this?”

  The marshal shakes his head.

  “You were coming here anyhow?”

  Whicher studies the body on the ground—a young man dressed in jeans
, engineering boots, a canvas jacket—head of black hair nestled in the dirt. “I heard on the radio, driving up.”

  “Victim was shot at the back door,” the sheriff says. “No sign he's been moved. Miss Bonnier, the neighbor there, says she heard something this morning.”

  Whicher looks across the yard to the wood-panel fence beyond a spreading pecan tree.

  Heat radiates from the baked earth. A catch of smoke drifts in the air.

  Beyond the panel fence he can make out the roof of another house.

  “Her place backs on to this,” McCoy says. “She heard some kind of a noise, around eight. This afternoon, she was cleaning up in her yard, raking dead leaves, she looked over the fence—she saw this.”

  “Have y'all identified the body?”

  “Tommy Ray Fallon.”

  Whicher says the name over in his head—he doesn't recognize it.

  “There's no sign of the owner of the property,” the sheriff says. “Brandon Lynch. The guy works in the oil fields. We're trying to get a hold of him now.” The sheriff gestures with a thumb in the direction of the panel fence.

  Whicher follows across the dirt yard.

  Beneath the pecan tree Sheriff McCoy stops, turns. “So let's hear it,” he says. “You're here looking for some young woman?”

  “Marshals Service had information she might be out here,” Whicher says. “She failed to show up for a court appearance, yesterday.”

  The sheriff looks at Whicher, eyes searching his face. He breaks off, glares across at the body by the house. “A bail skip?” he says, finally. “What was she arrested for?”

  “Possession of a controlled substance.”

  The sheriff stands nodding to himself. “I'll be damned.”

  The marshal steps a little into his sight-line. “And why's that?”

  “The victim here—Tommy Ray Fallon. According to his ID, he's a recovery agent. For a licensed bail bond company.”

  “How y'all know that?”

  “We found his truck,” McCoy says. “A Ford Ranger. Parked a little ways down the street.”

  Whicher watches the man in the zip-suit take a camera from a metal-sided case. He stands, takes a pace back, raises the camera, photographing the body from above.

  “My deputy there, Skilling, got to talking with the neighbors,” the sheriff says. “One of 'em pointed out the vehicle, said it didn't belong. We ran the plate, opened it up. There's a bunch of bail bond company paperwork in the glove box. This girl have a bounty on her?”

  The marshal eyes him.

  “Was she running?” the sheriff says. “Was this guy trying to bring her back?”

  Behind the wheel of the Silverado, Whicher takes out his cell. He reads a number from a lined notepad. The neighbor, Miss Bonnier, stands watch from the shade of the willow tree.

  Whicher keys the number, sends the call—it picks up.

  “Fairgreen Bail Bond.” A woman's voice. “Martha Thomas speaking—how may I help?”

  “Ma'am, this is US Marshals Service. I'm calling about a young woman.”

  “A client?”

  “Juanita Jones. She failed to show for a court appearance in Lubbock yesterday. She posted a ten thousand dollar bond with your company.”

  The woman clears her throat. “Give me a minute. Let me call up her file.”

  The marshal watches Miss Bonnier—watching him from beneath the tree.

  “Alright. Juanita Jones. I have her details on the screen, I'm looking at her file now.”

  “Did y'all send somebody after her?” Whicher says.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Did you send somebody to bring her in?”

  For a moment there's silence at the end of the line.

  “Let me check that for you,” the woman says. “If a client misses court, we'll have a tracer locate their probable whereabouts before we'd do anything else.”

  “You wouldn't send out a recovery agent?”

  “That's not the company policy.”

  Whicher looks at the notepad.

  “Alright, I have the list that went out to our tracers,” the woman says. “I can't see her name on it.”

  “There any way one of the agents would know about a bail skip—before the tracers know?”

  “Ordinarily, no.”

  Whicher stares out the windshield at the dust-blown lane. “Ma'am, do y'all have a fellow name of Tommy Ray Fallon works for you?”

  “We have a lot of agents...”

  “Is Mister Fallon one of them?”

  “Well, yes. As a matter of fact. He contracts for us sometimes.”

  “You're going to be hearing from the Motley County Sheriff, ma'am. I'm sorry to tell you.”

  Beneath the willow, Miss Bonnier turns from Whicher's gaze to stare out across the parched land.

  “There was an incident in Motley County,” Whicher says.

  “Is Tommy Ray alright?”

  “No, ma'am. Mister Fallon was shot and killed in Torero today.”

  Stepping down from the truck, Whicher swings the door closed. He takes a stride toward Miss Bonnier.

  “Ma'am?”

  She nods.

  He points at the house. “Can you tell me anything about the owner?”

  “He's away a whole lot.”

  “What kind of age?”

  The woman shrugs. “Thirty something.”

  “He live here long?”

  “He came in with a lot of oil people, about three years gone.”

  “He own the house?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “He bought it?”

  She nods. “He's from out east—the coast, Corpus Christi or someplace.”

  “And you don't see much of him?”

  “I say hello over the fence.”

  Whicher takes out a photocopied picture from his jacket pocket.

  “They were drilling test wells,” Miss Bonnier says. “He wanted to have himself a base. But the rigs moved on, the wells were no good. He couldn't sell the house, after.”

  Whicher holds out the picture. “How about this young woman? You ever see her around here?”

  Miss Bonnier glances at it. “I don't know.”

  “Take it,” Whicher says. “Take a good look.”

  “My house is around back, I don't see folk coming or going.” The woman takes the picture, holds it up close.

  “Juanita Jones, she's called.”

  Miss Bonnier shakes her head. She hands him back the photograph. “I don't know much about Brandon Lynch. He'll be home a week, then away—wherever the rigs are drilling. When I can't sleep nights I'll see his lights shining sometimes. You'd think he'd be tired, an' all, working those long shifts.”

  Up at the house, Sheriff McCoy appears in the doorway by Deputy Skilling.

  Whicher touches the brim of the Resistol. “Excuse me, ma'am.”

  The sheriff calls down the yard, “So, did they send the guy?”

  Whicher approaches the house. “Bail bond company didn't take any action.”

  “Sure on that?”

  “They said not.”

  McCoy grabs the cowhide belt at his waist.

  “I told them you'd be calling,” Whicher says.

  The sheriff hoists his pants an inch. “I still say it could be something. You fixin' to stick around?”

  The marshal shakes his head. “I got court business to attend.”

  “I'd appreciate you leaving your number,” the sheriff says. “In case we need to talk.”

  Whicher nods, looks at Deputy Skilling. “How long has the victim's vehicle been there?”

  Skilling's eyes are hooded.

  “Do you know?” Whicher says.

  “Nobody paid it much mind.”

  McCoy scowls. “Go on up the street again,” he tells the deputy. “Ask around, see if anybody remembers.”

  Whicher looks at the sheriff. “Any sign Fallon was inside the house?”

  “So far, no. It's looking like he was standing outside, shot by
somebody in the kitchen. I have a scene of crime officer lifting prints, I guess we'll find out if your Juanita Jones was here.”

  Grit whips through the yard, a bitter note on the wind—the sour scent of burning.

  “You have a fire someplace?” Whicher says.

  The sheriff's eyes sink.

  “Right across the county,” Skilling answers.

  “Never seen a thing like it,” McCoy says. “Drought's been going months, we've been fighting wildfires all summer.”

  “Dry land and high wind,” Skilling says.

  “I got the whole department out assisting fire crews. Plus volunteers, day and night.” The sheriff angles his head toward the house. “Now this.”

  “I hear you,” Whicher says.

  McCoy eyes him. “This bail skip you're after finding—what exactly was the charge?”

  “Possession of marijuana.”

  “What kind of money on the bond?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  “The girl posted ten thousand dollars bail—for possession of weed?”

  “Lubbock police wrote it up as intent to sell.”

  “And how come you're looking for her, marshal? I mean, what the hell do you care?”

  Whicher turns from the house, looks past Miss Bonnier—out across the ranch land, to the haze in the sky.

  “You don't have better to do?” McCoy says.

  “I was in the army...with her father.” Whicher rubs at his chin.

  The sheriff tilts back his hat. “What happened with his kid?”

  “She's been trouble most of her grown-up life.”

  “Kind of age?”

  “Twenty two. The mother's about had enough. She still has her father.”

  “How come she knows Brandon Lynch?”

  “All I heard is, she might have been out here.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Her father.”

  The sheriff sniffs.

  “They'll knock the charge down to misdemeanor,” Whicher says. “Unless Juanita fails to show up pretty soon.”

  McCoy dips his head. “Unless she put a bullet into Tommy Ray Fallon here today.”