Beyond the yard, the cornfield was a mangled mess with wide swatches of flattened corn from his truck chasing him and Isleen through the field. The weeds and tall grass of the yard had been flattened and smashed in places from all the crime techs and officers searching for the smallest bit of evidence.
An odd furrow through the grass snagged his attention. It looked like someone had ridden a motorcycle through the yard and around to the back of the trailer. He was pretty damned positive the investigators drove cars. He listened. The noise from all the corn leaves rustling made it hard to pick up the sound, but he heard it none the less. A heartbeat. Breathing. Someone was behind the trailer. A sightseer or someone connected to the crazy bitch?
He followed the path, stopped at the corner of the trailer, and peered around it.
There was the motorcycle. A damned fine-looking piece of machinery. Flat black paint, skull on the tank. The kind of bike he’d love to spend some time admiring, then give it a test drive.
Beyond the bike was a giant of a man. He looked like he had a couple of inches and a dozen pounds on Xander. He wore jeans, a gray T-shirt, and boots. Same thing every other guy wore, but this guy’s hair—whoa. That stuff on the top of his head flamed in the sun. It was the darkest shade of red hair Xander had ever seen. Wasn’t there some fancy girly name for hair that color?
The guy faced out toward the field. Eyes closed, sucking in great breaths of air, holding them almost like he savored the flavor of oxygen before he exhaled slowly out his mouth.
Who the hell? And why the fuck did the guy act like he’d found a prime meditation spot—unless torture and pain were triggers for relaxation? Only a sadist would get off on the bad vibes this place emitted.
Xander moved around the trailer so the man could see him. “What are you doing?” His booming demand carried the weight of his attitude.
The guy didn’t flinch, didn’t startle, didn’t react at all to Xander’s voice breaking the silence among the fields. He must be in one hell of a Zen state.
“What are you doing here?” Xander headed toward the guy. A breeze blew from behind him, ruffling his hair.
The guy’s eyes popped open, and he lurched around, fists clenched in a ready-for-anything stance. And Xander saw the other side of his face. A tattoo—a glossy, black feather spanning from the corner of his mouth up and over the apple of his cheek. As if that wasn’t bad enough the feather had been broken and wept fat drops of red down the man’s cheek and neck.
A tattoo like that made a statement.
Recognition hit Xander. This was the guy who’d been looking at the bear totem the night he drove to this decrepit patch of earth and found Isleen. With the bear carving so close to Xander’s home and three hours from where they currently stood, no way was this encounter a big, happy coincidence.
“Who the fuck are you?” Pain slammed into the side of Xander’s head. Goddamn. He blinked with every pounding pulse and pressed his palm to his temple until his body calibrated to the thudding.
Silence sliced the air for a few moments too long before Xander heard the guy’s thoughts.
No one was supposed to be here. I was guaranteed privacy. “You need to leave. This is a crime scene, an ongoing investigation.”
There was something odd about the way the guy spoke. It wasn’t his words or his volume or anything Xander could easily label. It was almost as if he had a slight accent, but even that wasn’t quite right.
“Yeah, I know. I’m a consultant with the Bureau of Criminal Investigation.” Not an out-and-out lie. “You’re trespassing.”
The guy stared at him. Like take-a-picture-it-will-last-longer stared. Must be the scars. Though with that big-ass tattoo on his face, the guy shouldn’t judge.
It was almost like there was a time delay on the guy’s thoughts. Xander finally heard them.
He’s not lying. This guy is a consultant. Then why the fuck did they call me in? Overkill. I could be home weeding instead of dealing with this shit. The guy nodded once. “I’m a consultant with the FBI.”
Xander listened. Listened for the little hitch that would happen if the guy lied. Listened for his heart rate to increase. Listened for thoughts that varied from the words. Nothing. He was telling the truth. And seemed uber-serious about his weeding. “You’re the big guns they called in?”
The guy shrugged. Yeah. I don’t look it. But neither do you. “You’re not what I had in mind for a consultant.”
“Neither are you. I guess they like to hire the ugly ones.”
Truth. Gospel fucking truth. A smile almost tipped the man’s lips, but he didn’t say anything.
“I’m Xander Stone, by the way.” He held out his hand to shake.
The guy held up a gloved hand in a warding-off gesture. Don’t fucking touch me.
It wasn’t like Xander planned to molest the dude. “You got a name?”
The guy did that weird staring thing again, but didn’t think the answer to Xander’s question. A question like that and the brain couldn’t help answering, and yet this guy—
Lathaniel Montgomery.
Guess this guy was just on a delayed reaction. Maybe Lathaniel here was a bit slow in the brain game.