“I figure anyone with a TV set or who can read knows their prints in a truck owned by a man who was murdered would be methodical about wiping down the truck they transported his dead body in and then stole.”
“Yeah,” Larry mumbled.
“We’re out,” Jay said as he and John moved from the truck. “We’ll call we got a report.”
“Thanks,” Hix replied.
“Tow’s comin’,” Miller said, joining them.
Hix turned his attention to the man. “Thanks to you too, Ranger.”
“Skeeves me out, knowin’ that trash was in my park. But still, hope this gets you a step closer in catching him,” Miller returned.
Hix did too.
Larry was with Bets running down a lead at a convenience store in Alliance, where a man shared he’d sold a bottle of Windex to a man in an older model, white F150, and Hix was in his Ram heading out to their meth man’s fortress when his cell went.
He dug it out, saw the call was from his girl and took it, answering, “Hey, honey. How you doin’?”
“You have a girlfriend?” Corinne asked in accusation.
Fuck.
“Cor—”
“I can’t believe you have a girlfriend. You broke up with Mom like . . . a month ago.”
Not even close.
“Corinne,” he growled.
“She says we should prepare because you’re movin’ on and we’re gonna have to do it with you,” Corinne declared furiously.
But Hix felt a burn hit his gut.
“Who?” he demanded.
“What?” his daughter snapped.
“Who said that?”
“Mom, Dad, who else?” she retorted.
Hope.
Hope probably knew his Bronco was in Greta’s drive last night, and in retribution she’d told his daughter he was seeing Greta.
“She tell Mamie?” he asked.
“Just me and Shaw. She doesn’t want Mamie upset. And anyway, Mamie’s at dance. And by the way, not cool you told Shaw about it and not me.”
“I didn’t tell Shaw.”
“Well he knew and he was all up in Mom’s face about sharin’ something with your kids about their dad.”
As much as that had to suck for Hope, she’d bought it, and now she’d bought the fact that Hix was not going to do fuck all to help her rid herself of it.
“We’ll talk about this next week,” he told his girl.
“Will you be marrying her by then?” she asked snidely.
“First,” he bit off, “you do not talk to your father that way. Second, you need to calm down and think about this. Your mother and I have not been apart for a month. We’ve been apart a lot longer than that. And last, Corinne, we’ll talk about this next week.”
“So I’m sure you want me to keep it from Mamie like you kept it from me.”
“Yeah. That’d be nice,” he returned. “Seein’ as I would have told you myself if there was something to tell and I’d do it when it was the right time to tell you. I’d appreciate it if you let me at least do that with your sister if that time comes.”
“Whatever, Dad.”
“Again, you do not talk to me that way.”
She said nothing.
So he said, “I’m ticked at you but I love you and now I gotta go.”
“Right, later, Dad.”
He didn’t understand the emphasis on “dad” but he wasn’t going to ask and it wouldn’t matter. She hung up on him.
Hix drove and did something he didn’t like to do for two reasons, the new one—speaking to the woman at all—being the one he most disliked.
He called Hope.
She answered on the first ring.
“Fancy you phoning me,” she said sarcastically as greeting.
Like that wasn’t what she’d been angling for.
At least one thing was clear. She was over her urge to be there for him when he needed her.
“I told you we were done.”
“Yup, remember that, Hix. Vividly.”
“We weren’t. You’re the mother of my children. I was intent on finding a way to keep hold on that and find something good we could still share through it. But now, Hope, we’re done.”
There was a pause before, “What’s that mean?”
“That means you’re the mother of my children and that’s all you’ll ever be in a way I seriously hope you consider reclaiming your maiden name.”
There was a moment of stunned silence he actually felt was stunned through the line before, “Hixon, if you’re pissed I told Shaw and Corinne—”
“Yes, I’m pissed. And the way I’m pissed means you just broke the last straw, Hope.”
“Does she mean that much to you?” she snapped.
“No. Not yet. But my children do.”
On that, he disconnected and threw the phone on the passenger seat.
She called back four times in the six miles it took him to turn into the long drive that was on an immense plot of land where he had to ignore the man hanging at the opening of the fence, a walkie-talkie and a SIG Sauer on his belt.
He drove up to the massive, sprawling ranch house that had been built last year after Becker had scraped off his last not-quite-as-massive, sprawling ranch house and replaced it.
When he did, his phone rang again, and since he had to pick it up to take it with him, he saw it wasn’t Hope but Shaw.
So he took the call.
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the game?” he asked in greeting.
“Yeah, Dad, but we need to talk.”
“Shaw, sorry, son, but I’m in the middle of something.”
“I get that, Dad, and I gotta be quick anyway ’cause Coach’ll be ticked he sees me on the phone. But just to say, I’ll talk to Corinne after she cools down and I want you to think about me livin’ exclusively with you.”
“Shaw—”
“She’s a bitch.”
Goddamn it. He had to defend her.
“Don’t say that about your mother.”
“Okay. Right. Sorry,” he clipped out each word. “I still wanna talk about livin’ exclusively with you.”
“We’ll talk later, Shaw. Keep your cool too, look after your sisters, have a good game tonight and we’ll talk, kid. Promise.”
“Okay, Dad. Be safe, yeah?”
“Always.”
They disconnected, Hix swung out of the Ram, rounded the hood and walked up the steps with his eyes on the man standing at the top, also with a walkie-talkie and a gun on his belt.
“Mr. Becker is waiting for you,” the guy announced when Hix’s boot hit the top step.
Mr. Becker.
Like he was a genteel landowner.
Priceless.
Hix lifted his chin and the guy turned, opening a hand-carved door that had to cost thousands and guiding Hix through it.
Hix didn’t bother looking around. The wealth and opulence enjoyed by a man who destroyed lives was of no interest to him. The man in front of him who was armed was.
He was led down a hall and then through a door to the left.
He’d barely cleared it and noted he’d hit a well-appointed study before Becker was moving to him, arms out, smile wide on his face, crying out, “Hixon!” like he was a beloved son returning home from war.
“Becker,” Hix replied, briefly taking him in.
Tall. Lanky. Aged fifty-eight but looking maybe forty-five, tops.
He didn’t look like a wealthy rancher rolling in it.
He didn’t look like a respectable meth-dealing businessman who was killing it (which was unfortunately what he was).
He looked like an aging rock star who was past it.