Page 46 of The Last Straw

Wyrick nodded. “Initially, yes, and then the cases were closed later after the women were supposedly accounted for.”

“We call Detective Floyd first thing tomorrow,” Charlie said.

“We also need to go back to Detter House tomorrow. Have you found anything on the old blueprints?” Wyrick asked.

“No, but that only means that if passages were built into the structure, they just didn’t want it known,” he said.

“Okay, then. We’ll deal with that tomorrow. I’m going to wash my hair and go to bed now,” Wyrick said and strode out of the room as abruptly as she’d arrived.

Wash her hair. Charlie sighed. She was the most aggravating, most intriguing, most brilliant woman he’d ever known. And she made him crazy, so there was that.

Preston Davis was resting easy now. The man he’d sent to Raver’s house had completed the task without issue. But Raver’s death also presented another problem. Now he was going to have to find another avenue to funnel his excess cash besides through his own bank. Compared to a lot of others in the business, Preston was small-time. He didn’t deal in military weapons, or anything in large quantities. Just weapons taken in robberies that needed to be fenced. He knew people. He’d figure it out. But for now he was backing off.

As it was nearing sunset, he poured himself a double shot of whiskey, picked up his handgun and carried them out onto the veranda. He liked rural Louisiana, just not the swampy parts, and he’d lived out here on his grandpa’s land for almost ten years now, ever since the old man’s passing, but there was always a snake somewhere waiting to be dispatched, and he hated snakes.

The old antebellum house was smaller than a mansion, but far grander than the simple houses in the surrounding area, and he’d spent most of his youth working for a stockbroker in Charleston before retiring here. He often missed the conveniences of the West Virginia capital, but not enough to want to live there.

He slipped into a wooden rocker, shifted until he was facing west. Then he laid the handgun on the table beside him, took a sip of his whiskey and settled in to watch the end of this day.

A big blue heron flew across his line of vision, and he could already hear the night birds starting to call. He took another sip, wondering what he was going to make for his dinner, when he heard the sounds of vehicles approaching.

He frowned. He wasn’t in the mood for company, even though it wasn’t unusual for the friends he had to drop in without notice. He took another sip, then set his whiskey on a table and stood up. Out of habit, he slipped his handgun in the back of his waistband and headed for the front yard.

The wraparound porch afforded him the luxury of moving from back to front without going through the house, and he was all the way around the corner and moving toward the front door when he saw the first black SUV.

The windows were tinted, so he couldn’t see the driver, but when a second vehicle appeared, and then a third, his heart skipped a beat.

He’d bet his life these were Feds.

Damn Jeremiah Raver to the hellfire and brimstone he preached.

Even before they got out, he was weighing his options.

Did he run?

Did he want to shoot it out and die on the land of his ancestors?

Or did he want to take his chances in court?

Because he knew in his gut he was going to jail.

And then the agents spilled out and headed toward the house with their weapons in their hands.

“ATF! ATF! Put your hands in the air! Put your hands in the air!”

And just like that, Preston’s decision was made. He reached behind his back, and when they saw the gun in his hands, they opened fire.

Preston died on the front porch from a gunshot wound to the chest, just as his great-great-great-grandfather had died during the War of Northern Aggression.

Tradition mattered here.

It was, after all, the South.

Early the next morning Special Agent Vance arrived at his office, set down his Starbucks coffee, the one daily indulgence he allowed himself, then eased into his chair and combed his fingers through his hair.

Preston Davis was dead. He’d gotten the message last night on his way home from the office, and immediately sent Hank Raines a text with the info of what had happened.

Billy Vance knew that the ATF team had spent hours collecting evidence at Preston’s home. Enough to bring down a whole ring of thieves he’d been doing business with. But notifying Davis’s family of the death was not his job. That went to the team who’d gone to serve the warrant. Billy had the Raver family to notify and he was dreading it.

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