Page 22 of The Texas Murders

“I’d say it’s about a foot long. Kind of a chocolate-brown color.”

“Marbling?” Carlos asks.

“Yeah, I guess that’s what you’d call it. There are tan patches.”

We text images of the feathers back and forth, and while we’re not ornithology experts, all three of us agree the feathers seem to have come from the same type of bird. Maybe even the same bird.

I tell her that we should make sure both feathers are taken to the crime lab in El Paso and see what they can tell us.

“There’s something else you should know,” Ava says, her guarded tone gone, replaced by a collaborative attitude. “About this missing woman, Rebecca Trujillo.”

“Yeah?”

“I said she went missing about a year ago. In fact, she went missing one year ago yesterday. Same day as the girl you’re looking for.”

Carlos and I stare at each other.

“Both went missing on the summer solstice,” Carlos adds.

I feel a chill crawl up my spine.

If Fiona Martinez went missing on the anniversary of Rebecca Trujillo’s disappearance, both on the summer solstice, and in both cases a golden eagle feather was left behind, suddenly Carlos’s flippant comment about a serial killer collecting Native American women doesn’t seem quite so far-fetched.

CHAPTER 16

WE MAKE ARRANGEMENTS for Carlos and me to visit the Pueblo tomorrow and talk with Ava about the cases. Then Carlos and I work until after sunset, searching the computer databases, making phone calls, checking in on other cases we’re involved in back in our home offices, and updating our respective superiors about what we’re up to here in West Texas. When we finally call it a night, I can tell there’s no chance I’ll be able to sleep anytime soon. Staying up all night and then taking the nap today have thrown off my circadian rhythms—not to mention what we’ve discovered about the eagle feathers left behind has me too anxious to relax.

I change into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and I tell Carlos I’m going to go grab a beer.

“Want to come?”

“Nah,” he says. “Not unless you’re planning on crossing over into Juárez to hire a couple of Mexican prostitutes.”

“Very funny,” I say. “Looks like I’ve finally figured out when you’re joking.”

“You think I’m joking?” he says, looking up with a surprised expression. “It’s perfectly legal in Mexico. We wouldn’t be breaking any laws.”

I feel a moment’s hesitation—Wait,ishe joking?—and then his face breaks into a grin.

“You got me,” I say. “Again.”

In the parking lot of the hotel, I plug an address into the GPS. Twenty minutes later, I park my truck in the gravel lot outside a bar called the Outpost. I debate whether to go in. I felt a spark with Megan last night, but that doesn’t change the fact that I was also tempted to rekindle the flame with Willow. If not for Carlos’s phone call, I might have woken up next to Willow and spent the morning discussing the possibility of the two of us getting back together.

I remind myself I’m not cheating on anyone by taking an interest in Megan. The bottom line is that Willow and I aren’t dating anymore.

When I walk into the bar, I don’t spot Megan right away, and I wonder if I’ve misremembered her saying she is working tonight. The bar is spacious, but not very crowded, with only a few people seated at the numerous round tables. The floors are scuffed hardwood, the walls decorated with neon beer signs. There’s a pool table, shuffleboard, and a corner with roping dummies where a trio of college-age kids are practicing their lassoing skills. A small stage is positioned prominently in the room, but no band is playing tonight. Instead, a song by Shooter Jennings plays on the jukebox.

I slide onto a barstool next to a guy who looks a little out of place among the younger crowd. Even more out of place than I do. He’s probably in his late fifties, wearing—despite the fact that it’s summer—a tan jacket with patches on the elbows. The other patrons all look like college students; he could be their professor.

When Megan walks out from the back room, carrying a rack of pint glasses, she doesn’t notice me at first. She’s wearing cowboy boots, painted-on jeans, and a Tom Petty T-shirt. Her hair is pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail.

“Meg,” the guy next to me calls, clearly not concerned that she’s helping another customer. “How about a refill, love?”

As she looks up at him, she spots me, and her face lights up in surprise.

“What on earth are you doing here?” she asks, coming around the bar to hug me.

“I couldn’t wait to see you again.”

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