Page 68 of Quicksandy

Jaeger gassed the Charger in Wickenburg, where he’d spent the night. Then, cursing, he pulled onto the highway and headed back to Prescott, the way he’d come. He’d reported the success of the explosion to his client and was enjoying a celebratory breakfast at Denny’s when the call had come from the idiot kid he’d depended on for information. The Champion woman had been nowhere near the motel when the bomb went off.

Someone had triggered the device—maybe some fool who had the wrong room number, or a burglar trying to break in. Who it had been didn’t matter. What did matter was that he’d reported a mission completed and requested another installment on his fee when, in reality, all he’d done was blast a hole in a motel room. As a man who took pride in being a professional, he couldn’t let that stand. He had to go back to Prescott and finish the job—that would include offing the worthless twit who’d proven himself too unreliable to live and who already knew too much about him. Then he would take out Brock Tolman, collect his final payment, and enjoy a well-deserved vacation.

* * *

Val stood in the front yard watching a bank of roiling black clouds spill over the western ridge. Rain would be a blessing to the land. But in her present mood, the darkening sky loomed like a portent of trouble in her life and the life of the ranch family.

The morning had started with Tess’s phone call about Ruben’s being injured in an explosion. Ruben was alive, thank heaven, and was recuperating in the hospital. But Val had a feeling her sister wasn’t telling the family everything. What had caused the explosion? Why had Ruben been involved? Was the danger over? So far, those questions had no answers.

Then, shortly after Tess’s call, Casey had phoned Val, insisting that he needed to talk with her in person. “I’m coming to the ranch,” he’d said. “Wait for me.”

Much as she’d missed him, Val had sensed a painful confrontation ahead. “That’s a long drive just to talk,” she’d hedged. “Can’t we deal with this now, over the phone? Or can’t you at least tell me what it’s about?”

“Not this time. Trust me, Val. I’ll be leaving here in a few minutes.”

So here she was, almost three hours later, gazing up toward the pass, waiting for his black pickup truck to come zigzagging down the switchback road. She had no idea what Casey had to tell her—just the premonition that her life was about to change forever.

By the time the pickup rolled into the yard, a stiff breeze had sprung up. The clouds were stampeding across the sky. Val had taken shelter on the front porch with the dog. When Casey parked and climbed out of the cab, the dog ran to meet him, wagging and dancing. Val did not.

He strode across the yard to give her a constrained hug. “Where can we talk?” he asked.

“How about here? It’s too windy for a walk, and the whole house has become a nursery since the baby came home.”

“Fine.” He moved two chairs to face each other. “It’s good to see you, Val.”

“I’ll decide whether it’s good to see you after I’ve heard what you came to say.” She noticed for the first time that he was carrying a thin canvas briefcase. “What’s in there?” she asked, attempting a feeble joke. “If we were married, I might be expecting divorce papers.”

“It’s a record of everything I’ve gathered,” he said. “You can look if you want, but I’d rather just tell you about it.”

Val felt her stomach clench. “Casey, I can’t deal with this. I told you—”

“Sit down, Val. Don’t say a word until I’ve finished. Whether you want to or not, you need to hear this.”

Val’s instincts told her not to argue, even though what he had to say might break her heart. She sat, her hands gripping the arm of the cheap plastic chair as Casey’s account unspooled, from the detective’s early research to the adoption records and the names of the parents.

“Our son has a name,” Casey said. “It’s Matthew. Matthew Randall Peterson.”

That isn’t the name I would have given him. Val tried to keep silent, hoping the ordeal would soon end. But there were questions she couldn’t hold back.

“Why do I need to know this, Casey? Why couldn’t you just keep it to yourself and leave me alone?”

“Because of what I’m about to tell you,” he said. “But maybe it would be better if I showed you.” He unzipped the briefcase, took out a photocopied page, and handed it to her.

On the page was an enlarged image of a newspaper item. It was brief, not even a full column. But as she read it—the family in the terrible highway crash, the parents dead at the scene, the son, Matthew, taken away in critical condition—scalding tears welled in Val’s eyes and trickled down her cheeks. Her throat felt tight and raw, as if she’d swallowed sand. “What happened to him?” The question emerged as a hoarse whisper. “Our son—did he die?”

“Nobody seems to know, Val. The hospital has no record of admitting him. There’s no death record to be found. It’s as if every trace of him has been lost.”

“And you’re going to Bakersfield to look for him.”

“Yes, even if all I find is his grave. At least we’ll have closure.” Casey’s eyes pleaded with her. “I can’t just let this go and walk away.”

She took a breath, so deep that her chest ached from it. “Then I can’t either. He’s my son, too. I’m going with you.”

* * *

Tess’s duffel, with a change of clothes and other personal items, had been destroyed in the explosion. After breakfast, on the way back to the hotel, they’d stopped at a Walmart. Brock waited in the SUV while she’d picked up jeans, a plaid shirt, some socks and underwear, and a few drugstore items.

“Shouldn’t we go and check the bulls?” she asked as she climbed into the passenger seat and clicked her seat belt.

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