Page 62 of Lone Star

“God, yes.”

Twenty-Three

The bodies, and the tent, and the vans, and the little plastic photography markers were long gone; the stakes and rope carted away as evidence. In another day or so, the wind would blow and smooth what remained of the tire treads and boot print impressions pressed down into the sandy soil where the first bodies had been found. But there were still signs of what had happened here, if you knew what to look for.

Candy studied a divot left by one of the stakes, and wondered if the faint, rusty-brown stippling on the dirt was blood. Probably.

“He cut their throats on the spot,” Fox said, drawing his attention. The Englishman crouched a few feet away, pads of his fingers pressed lightly to the ground, while he frowned off into the middle distance, eyes narrowed against the glare of morning sunlight.

“Yeah.”

“The killing was important. Like I said before: a ritual.” He stood, and turned to face Candy. “They were drugged, then. Dosed up with something heavy because there’s no sign of struggle. At least not now?” He cocked a brow in question.

Candy shook his head. “Not when it was fresh, either. Boot prints, yeah, but nobody was tossing around.” He flapped his own arms in imitation of someone fighting restraints. “Not even drag marks. It was like they got dropped out of the sky.”

Fox nodded, and cast his gaze across the ground again. “Unconscious or paralyzed.”

Albie was pacing a slow circle around the area, hands in his back pockets, brow furrowed. “Drug them, drive them out here, place them, cut their throats.”

“They were interrupted,” an unfamiliar voice called, and Candy whipped around.

When his gaze landed on Ten, the new brother, he realized with a bit of a shock that it was the first time he’d heard the guy speak. Tenny – and Reese, who currently lurked in his peripheral vision, wind blowing his pale hair – had kept silent through introductions, dinner, and even this morning’s departure. He had a very posh accent, and a very flat, very professional voice to carry it.

He stood a dozen or so yards away, on the far side of the crime scene, away from the place where the tent had stood and the feds and techs had parked their vehicles. He glanced back over his shoulder, and said, “They left in a hurry.”

Fox and Albie headed for him, Fox frowning, and Candy followed.

The sun cast deep shadows into a set of tire tracks they hadn’t examined before. Wide, knobby tires, from a truck or van, something heavy. Deep ruts that faded into paler prints: someone had stomped the gas, kicking up a spray of sand, leaving, as Ten had said, in a hurry.

Footprints, too. Several sets, thick-soled work boots, overlapping, clouding one another, and arcs where toes and heels had carved deep grooves. Signs of a scuffle. And drag marks, a single set.

“They parked here,” Ten said, pointing. He turned, sketching the scene for them with vague gestures from his long hands. “Unloaded the victims, one-by-one, and walked them over to the dump site. Three. But the fourth – the fourth wasn’t dosed strongly enough. He woke up, and he fled.” He followed the path of the footprints, placing his own feet carefully, disturbing nothing. “He went a few yards before they were on him. They subdued him, and got him back in the van. Either they couldn’t sedate him, or something spooked them, but they left. The other two bodies were the ones they placed later, on the sister’s lawn.”

Candy felt a strange fluttering at the base of his pulse. “You don’t know that.”

“A theory,” Fox proposed, giving his brother a sharp look.

Ten stared back at him, unrepentant. “No. This was an escape attempt.”

“You think,” Fox corrected, growing stern. “And if so, it only accounts for one other victim.”

“There were two.”

“How do you know?” Albie asked.

Ten didn’t respond.

The breeze kicked up, a sharp burst of cold air that sent sand and fine pebbles skirling around their boots.

“I’ll call Cantrell,” Candy said. “And tell him to get a team out here to look at this. Maybe they can tell something from the tires. Or the shoe prints.” He shrugged, biting back a rising swell of frustration. “They learn all kinds of shit from that sort of thing in the movies.”

Someone snorted – Tenny, he realized, when he glanced up.

The kid was smirking. “Movies,” he said, and turned away.

Candy didn’t know he’d balled a hand into a fist until his knuckles cracked.

“Yeah,” Albie sighed. “He makes everybody feel that way.”

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