Warrior Son. Rita Herron
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afternoon, she was so concerned about the doctor that she phoned him to make certain he didn’t need medical attention, but his voice mail kicked in. Her phone buzzed a second later.
Thinking it was him, she quickly snatched up the phone.
“Dr. Lail, this is Deputy North in Laredo. I got the results for that autopsy on Morty Burns.”
“Yes.”
“Did you find any forensics?”
“I’m afraid not,” Megan answered. “But the bullet that killed him was from a .45.”
“Hmm.”
“Something bothering you about the report?” she asked.
“Not the report per se. But I talked to Sheriff McCullen from Pistol Whip. Apparently Morty Burns was married to a woman named Edith Bennett.”
“Yes, I saw that,” Megan said.
Deputy North grunted. “Well, her brother is Arlis Bennett, a man the sheriff suspects is working with Boyle Gates.”
There was the name Bennett again. “Has Burns’s wife been notified of his death?” Megan asked.
“Not yet,” the deputy said. “I phoned and there was no answer at her place. She lives near Pistol Whip, not Laredo.”
Megan drummed her fingers on the desk. “I can go out and talk to her.”
“We really should have an officer present. This is a murder investigation now.”
“All right, I’ll get Deputy Whitefeather to accompany me.”
“Good. Sheriff McCullen thinks Burns’s murder may be related to the trouble at his ranch. That he might have been paid to set the ranch fires and that he might have been killed to cover up what he did.” He paused. “Anyway, I was hoping you’d found some DNA to tie his death to Gates or Bennett.”
“I’m sorry, I wish I could tell you more.”
He thanked her and hung up, and Megan stewed over the information.
It hadn’t occurred to her that a murder victim who’d been on her table might be connected to the McCullens.
She texted Roan to relay the deputy’s statement and explained that she’d meet him at the woman’s home to make the death notification—and question the woman in case she knew who’d taken her husband’s life. There was always the possibility that this murder was not related to the McCullens, that it was a domestic dispute gone bad or that Burns had gotten himself in some kind of trouble. Maybe he owed someone money...
Her phone beeped indicating a response to her text, and she read Roan’s message. At Horseshoe Creek now. Will meet you at the Burns farm. Wait for me.
She texted back OK, then grabbed her purse and rushed down the hallway.
Outside, the sun was setting, storm clouds rolling in, the wind picking up. The parking lot at the hospital was still full, though; the afternoon-evening shift hadn’t arrived, and an ambulance was rolling up.
She hit the key fob to unlock her car, jumped in and headed toward the address for the Burnses’ farm.
Traffic was thin as she drove through town, the diner starting to fill up with the early supper crowd. She made the turn to the highway leading out of Pistol Whip, and ten minutes later found the farm, a run-down-looking piece of property that had seen better days.
Overgrown weeds choked what had once been a big garden area, the fences were broken and rotting and the house needed paint badly. Her car rumbled over the ruts in the dirt drive, dust spewing in a smoky cloud behind her.
She scanned the property for life, for workers, but saw no one. Just a deserted tractor and pickup truck in front of the weathered house. She parked and glanced around, suddenly nervous.
She didn’t know anything about this woman, except that her husband had been murdered.
Suddenly the door on the side inched open and a cat darted out. Megan’s stomach knotted when she noticed blood on the cat’s fur and paws.
Fear momentarily immobilized her, but her instinct as a doctor kicked in, and she threw the door open and climbed from her car. She scanned the area for someone suspicious but saw no one. The cat ran into the barn behind the house.
She eased to the porch, one hand on the mace in her purse, her phone at her fingertips in case she needed to call for help. Wind beat at the house, banging a shutter that had come loose against the weathered wood.
She crept up the rickety steps, the squeaking sound of rotting boards adding to her frayed nerves. By the time she reached the front door, perspiration trickled down the back of her neck. Senses honed, she paused to listen for sounds inside.
The wind whistled through the eaves. Water dripped from a faucet or tub somewhere in the house.
The smell of something acrid swirled in the air as she poked her head inside. The living room with its faded and tattered furniture was empty. She took a deep breath and inched inside the door.
A sick feeling swept over her when she spotted the woman lying in the doorway from the kitchen to the den.
She lay in a pool of blood, one arm outstretched as if she was reaching for help, her eyes wide-open and filled with the shock of death.
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