Page 94 of The Texas Murders

The oxygen is helping me feel better, clearing my lungs of the lingering effects of the gas I inhaled this morning. The IV is giving me a small boost of energy. I can’t remember the last time I ate. And it’s easily been thirty hours since I slept. Tomorrow my body will be full of aches and pains, but for now I’m still running on the fumes of my adrenaline.

The sun has dropped below the horizon, and, in the distance, the sky is filled with clouds pulsing with heat lightning.

The whole street has been closed with police tape, andthere are numerous police officers, FBI agents, and crime scene technicians running around. From where I am, I can see Ryan Logan standing on Zebo’s lawn, coordinating everything. I have a newfound respect for him. Managing the craziness of all this can’t be easy. He is constantly being updated, relaying information, making decisions. In the time I’ve been sitting here sucking oxygen, he’s probably already talked to the director of the FBI and the governor of Texas.

As I wait for the IV to drain into my body, I check my phone, which—thank God it’s water resistant—survived my dive into Garrison Zebo’s pool. I’ve got two dozen missed calls and texts, all from family and friends asking if I’m okay after seeing reports of what happened at Zebo’s on the news. Both Willow and Megan were among the callers. But the message I’m really waiting on hasn’t come yet.

I haven’t heard from Ava.

Ryan breaks off a conversation with another agent, then heads over toward the ambulance.

“You ought to let them take you to the hospital,” he says.

I shake my head no, then turn off the oxygen canister and hang up the clear plastic face mask. The IV bladder is almost empty.

Ryan updates me on the investigation. Agents quickly scavenged some of Zebo’s files and found the locations of two more brothels we didn’t know about, one in a mining camp in Carlsbad, the other outside a truck stop in Amarillo.

“We’ve got people headed to both now,” he says. “We’re bringing down the whole organization tonight.”

The women held captive at Zebo’s house, including Marta,have been taken to the hospital, and agents are contacting their families as we speak. As for Garrison Zebo, Ryan informs me, he’s in stable condition.

“Let’s hope he gets pretty much the same treatment in prison that the girls he abducted got from him,” Ryan says.

“Any word about Carlos?” I ask.

Ryan has a forlorn expression. He nods.

“Tell me,” I say.

“He’s in surgery,” he says. “They’ve got to get that bullet out.”

I nod. That doesn’t sound so bad.

“He flatlined on the operating table,” Ryan adds. “His heart stopped beating, and they had to zap him with the paddles to bring him back.”

“Shit,” I say, a lump filling my throat.

“There’s nothing we need you for that can’t wait until tomorrow,” Ryan says. “I’ll get one of the agents to give you a ride to wherever you want to go.”

I stand up and tug the IV needle out.

Ryan extends his hand.

“You did good today, Ranger,” he says.

I nod, giving his hand a shake. All our animosity is finally behind us.

“You, too,” I say.

A minute later, Agent Kara Prince, who I met at the hospital, pulls up to give me a lift.

“Good news,” she says. “Marvin came out of his coma.”

It’s a relief, of course, but now I’m worrying about Carlos.

“Where to?” she asks.

“The hospital,” I say. “I’ll pay Marvin a visit while I’m waiting for my buddy to get out of surgery.”

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