To which he’d said, “Suit yourself.”
At the time, he’d been mired in the self-loathing always induced by memories of Marianne and the loss of the baby. Nevertheless, he’d been relieved and glad of Kerra’s decision to stay with him. He wasn’t ready to see the last of her. Not by a long shot.
But for once, he’d been prudent enough to keep his mouth shut and not jinx it. He’d curbed his natural impulse to either lash out or make a sarcastic wisecrack. He hadn’t pressed her to explain why she’d decided in his favor. When she’d headed for the bathroom to shower, he withheld an innuendo, and when she complained that Carson had bought her jeans a size too small, he’d refrained from telling her how smokin’ her rear end looked in them.
It had been midafternoon before they left the motel. As they departed it, Kerra told him that she must notify Gracie. “If I don’t, I may not have a job to go back to.”
He’d understood the necessity but prevailed on her to wait until they reached Dallas.
“I thought we’d be going to Fort Worth.”
“Not yet,” he’d told her. “Call Gracie on your phone from your apartment. That way, if Glenn is tracking us via your phone, it’ll place you there.”
Now, as Trapper navigated the streets of downtown Dallas toward the westbound freeway, Kerra asked what he thought about the FBI’s involvement.
“Unsurprising,” he said. “It was a matter of time, and I couldn’t be happier. While they’re poking into the case in Lodal, they might uncover something that would support what I have.”
“What do you have?”
“No proof. Just a preponderance of evidence filed away.”
“Where is it? Your office? We’re going there now?”
“We are, although it requires backtracking.”
The thirty miles between the cities took them an hour to drive because of a multi-car accident. But the delay worked well into Trapper’s plan. He wanted it to be full-on dark when they arrived at his office. He killed even more time by picking up drive-through burgers and eating them in the car.
By the time he drove onto the street where his office was located, nightfall was complete, and in this seedier section on the fringe of downtown, darkness was either sought or avoided, depending on one’s purpose.
One exterior light illuminated the building’s address formed by block tiles above the entrance, but the office windows on every floor were unlit. Trapper took the precaution of driving around the block, then pulled into a parking space on the opposite side of the street.
“Let’s sit tight for a while,” he said as he cut the car’s engine.
“Why?”
“To see what happens. If nothing does, then the coast is clear.”
An occasional car drove past, but none slowed down as though surveilling the area. He watched surrounding buildings for movement behind windows, watched alleyways for signs that someone was lurking in them, but in half an hour, he didn’t see anything to arouse suspicion.
“Okay.”
They got out of the car. He hustled Kerra across the street, bypassed the lighted entrance, and went to one on the side of the building. He punched in the code on the keypad to unlock the heavy metal door. They slipped through. He made certain that it locked behind them.
He chose the fire stairs over the elevator. The stairwell was illuminated only by red exit signs, but they had no difficulty climbing to the third floor. The moment they stepped out into the hallway, he saw the broken glass that had been the upper half of his office door.
He motioned for Kerra to freeze and slipped his pistol from the holster at the small of his back. For a full two minutes they stood motionless, his ears straining to hear the smallest sound.
Eventually he reached for Kerra’s hand, afraid to leave her out of his sight, and pulled her behind him as he approached his office. The door was ajar. Pistol extended, he eased it open with the toe of his boot.
Enough light was coming through the partially open window blinds that he could see that the place had been ransacked. His file drawers had been pulled from the cabinet and emptied, their contents strewn everywhere. The cushions on the couch had been slashed and disemboweled. Chairs and lamps had been overturned.
Only his desk remained as he’d left it. Seated in the chair behind it, holding a nickel-plated revolver, was Thomas Wilcox.
Chapter 19
Trapper recognized Wilcox, although he’d never met him face-to-face. With a casualness that belied the life-threatening situation, he said, “Hey, Wilcox. I think you know Kerra Bailey.”
Wilcox smiled. “You would be John Trapper.”
“I would.”
“Set your gun on the floor and come up slowly.”
“Better idea,” Trapper said. “You drop yours before I kill you.”
Beside him, Kerra whispered, “Please, Trapper.”
Wilcox shifted his gaze from Trapper to her, then back to Trapper. “We’re making the lady nervous. Why don’t we end this ludicrous standoff, conduct ourselves in a civilized manner, and set our weapons down simultaneously?”
“Because I’m barely civilized. Ask anybody. And on behalf of everyone who was injured or died in the Pegasus bombing, I would enjoy nothing better than to blow you straight to hell.”
Wilcox took his measure and must have determined that he’d meant every word. He lowered his revolver to the desk and raised his hands.
Trapper kicked aside the files and paperwork in his path as he walked to the desk. He grabbed Wilcox’s pistol, released the cylinder, and emptied the chambers. One by one the six bullets pinged onto the hardwood floor.
Wilcox looked beyond him and addressed Kerra by name. “Sunday night was a fiasco. Are you well?”
“I’m all right, but I’ve been better.”
During their exchange Trapper had halfway been expecting an attack to come from behind them. He kept his senses attuned to any sound or motion that would have signaled it. But no one sneaked up on them. It appeared that Wilcox was acting alone. Wilcox indicated the mess that had been made of the office and said, “I didn’t do this. It was this way when I got here.”
“Why’d you come?”
“It was imperative that I see you, because I fear you’ll soon be assassinated. It’s assumed by some that I will take the honor upon myself.”
Trapper chuffed. “You’re mulling it over?”
“I believe I have a better idea, yes. Better for both of us. Why don’t you sit? We’ll talk about it.”
Trapper considered telling him to kiss his ass and then shooting the bastard. But Kerra came forward and gave him a cautionary look.
He righted one of the straight chairs that faced his desk and motioned her into it. He remained standing and hefted Wilcox’s pistol in his palm as he studied the pearl-inlaid grip and elaborate scrolling on the barrel.
“During Prohibition, the madam of a whorehouse here in Fort Worth owned a pistol like this. She shot and killed one thieving whore, a cheating blackjack dealer, and three double-crossing bootleggers.”
Wilcox smiled. “I acquired the pistol at her estate auction. Anonymous bid.”