Twilight Warrior

“You could have gone for help but you chose the direct approach,” she said with a smile. “Back then, there was a limit to how closely you followed the rules. Is that still the way it is?”

He met her gaze and held it. “I was a marine. I’ve learned the importance of discipline. Now my job is to protect and serve. That’s precisely what I do.”

“As do I.”

“But for the private sector. In law enforcement the way we catch a killer determines the real outcome—whether or not he ends up convicted and behind bars.” He crossed the room and checked on Crusher, who was curled up on a pad underneath the desk next to a bone.

Travis focused back on Laura. When he spoke, his tone was all business. “As long as you respect the way our department does things, we’ll get along fine,” he said, his penetrating gaze holding hers.

His voice was soft but there was no mistaking his challenge. It was there in the tightening of his jaw and the icy glitter in his eyes.

“I’ve agreed to Chief Wright’s terms and I’ll honor my word,” she said softly, hoping to diffuse the situation. “So where do we start?”

“Let’s go meet with the lab boys and find out what they’ve learned about the bomb. That’s all we have at the moment,” he said. “Keep in mind that we can’t even be sure that the bomb was the work of the serial killer.”

“I’m sure.”

“I’m not. In our line of work, we automatically make enemies. Anyone who has a grudge against you is a possible suspect.”

“This is more than a coincidence, but if you want to explore unlikely possibilities, we could say that they were aiming at you and didn’t know which vehicle you drove,” she said.

“The most dangerous criminals I’ve put away are still behind bars.”

“They’ve undoubtedly got families,” she answered. “Or maybe partners that weren’t apprehended.”

“That’s exactly my point. We don’t have enough evidence to arrive at any conclusion,” he said. “Let’s go see what the lab techs have for us.”

Leaving Crusher asleep beneath Travis’s desk, they walked to the far end of the building. As they entered the lab, they saw several techs working at various stations. Travis focused on an older woman in her late fifties who was peering into a microscope.

“Mrs. Delaney,” Travis said softly.

“One moment,” she said. After a few more minutes, she glanced up at them. “I know why you’re here, Detective,” she said, looking at Travis, “and I have some preliminaries for you.” She brushed a strand of ash-colored hair away from her face and pinned it back in place. “Whoever put this bomb together knew what he was doing. It was homemade and bulky because of the low explosive used—basically ammonium nitrate and diesel fuel. These components are difficult to trace to a source because they’re so common. The detonator, an electric blasting cap, should be a lot easier to track—if we can get the serial number. A throwaway cell phone was used to trigger the device.”

“Do you have anything I can follow up on right now?” Travis asked.

“One thing caught my attention. The ammonium nitrate is fertilizer grade and we’ve identified the brand for you,” she said, writing it down for him. “Tracking down a recent sale might give you a lead, but of course it could have been purchased several months ago. Or stolen.”

“At least it’s a place to start. Thanks,” Travis said.

“Was there a tracking device found in the vehicle or maybe out in the debris field?” Laura asked as they were about to leave.

“No, all we got was the cell phone and it was a cheap model. We can’t track back the call it received setting off the bomb, but we’re trying to find out who sells that model in this area,” Mrs. Delaney answered.

As they walked out of the lab, Laura remained silent.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked after they’d picked up Crusher and were headed toward the department’s underground garage. His pickup would remain at the station where it would be double-checked for evidence. In the meantime, he’d been assigned one of the department’s SUVs.

“Bomb components can be followed up anytime, by phone or computer, usually,” she said. “So what do you say we take a ride over to the Rez and see what their cops have on the Navajo victim? Or we could check with the Bloomfield police and see what other similarities we can find between the crimes that might tell us more about the suspect.”

“You’re looking for patterns, not just victim profiles, right?” he asked, reading her correctly.

She nodded. “An organized serial killer, for example, stages a crime scene, then takes a trophy, something he can hold. I looked but I couldn’t tell if anything was missing from my friend’s place. We’d only reconnected a few months ago on the internet and I’d never been to her home,” she said, her voice wavering.

If she’d only arrived early instead of late, she might have been able to prevent Nancy’s murder. As soon as the thought formed, she pushed it back. This wasn’t her fault. Deep down she knew that. Allowing herself to shoulder additional guilt would only undermine her ability to think clearly.

What she could do for Nancy now was catch her killer and see that justice was served. It was what she did, and Laura knew it the only way she’d ever find peace again.

“What you want is tricky at best,” he said slowly. “Keep in mind that those cases don’t belong to my department and getting that information will entail my calling in favors.” They pulled out into the street. “I’ll also have to justify our interest, and we still have no conclusive proof that the murders are connected.”

“The only way we’re going to get that proof is to keep digging,” she insisted.

“First things first,” he said. “I want to follow up on those nitrates.”

She expelled her breath in a hiss. “Okay. So how many stores do you have around here that might carry something like that?”

“Five. Two are feed stores on the outskirts of town, closer to the farms and ranches,” he said. “I get Crusher’s dog food at one of them. We can go there first. It shouldn’t take us long to check out the retailers.”

“We could save time by calling ahead to see who carries the brand we’re looking for,” she said.

He shook his head. “Word of the explosion has probably gotten around, and community businessmen might be reluctant to talk to the police. They’ll want to avoid trouble and negative publicity. We’re more likely to get the information we need if we catch them off guard and question them face-to-face. Keep in mind, too, that any one of the people we talk to could be the bomber.”

“I was thinking I’d do the calling from my own cell phone. I’m not law enforcement. We could save ourselves a trip if they don’t carry the brand.”

“No, it’s still too risky. If the bomber’s also the killer, he knows your voice. He may panic and run.” He took a deep breath then let it out. “You should take my older brother’s advice about not leading with your chin.”

She smiled. “I can bide my time in an investigation but I’ve never been as patient as you are.”

He glanced at her, then back at the road. “We can’t afford to telegraph our moves. Surprise is one of the key elements in situations like these. It keeps witnesses off balance. Even the slowest thinker can set a plan in motion if you give them enough time.”

“In this particular instance, maybe your way’s better. But sometimes you have to cut corners. Big payoffs often come with the willingness to take a risk,” she said.

“I’m not opposed to taking risks. It all depends on what’s at stake,” he said, giving her a slow, lazy smile.

From anyone else, the gesture would have scarcely merited a second thought. Yet Travis had that indefinable something extra. It was a quality that was hard to describe. A man either had it or he didn’t. And Travis obviously had more than his share. She suppressed the shiver that shot up her spine.

“So where are we headed first?” she asked, seeing Travis turn west and go down a side street.

“Franklin’s Feed.”

“I remember that place,” she said as memories, mostly unwelcome, filled her mind.

“You worked there one summer in exchange for riding privileges. You were crazy about horses back in high school. You saved every penny you earned hoping to buy the Franklins’ old mare.”

“Mabel,” she said, nodding. “But I was never able to get enough cash together. It broke my heart when I finally realized that it just wasn’t going to happen.” She took a deep breath.

“But, in retrospect, it was a good thing. I would have had to sell her when my mom decided it was time for us to move again.”

“You got too attached to that old horse,” Travis said. “But I’ll say this. You were always happy when you were working in the barn.”

“Getting attached to things was easy for me back then,” she said.

“And now?”

It was the gentleness of his voice that somehow got past her defenses. “I don’t have horses, dogs or even a goldfish. Life is easier without emotional complications.”

“Maybe so, but I really enjoy having Crusher around,” he said, stopping at a red light. At the sound of his name, the dog stuck his head out between the front-seat backrests. “Down, Crusher,” Travis commanded. “He’s a great companion. Now that my brother’s moved out, it’s nice to know that even when I’m asleep, there’s someone watching my back.”

“So it’s a good thing for you that I’m here. Now you have two of us watching your back,” she said. “And best of all, only one of us drools.”

He looked at her, then dropped his gaze slowly, taking in the curve of her breasts, then working his way back up with equal thoroughness. When he finally met her gaze, he smiled. “Nope. You both drool.”

She burst out laughing. Travis had matured into one heck of a man. He commanded a situation without being overbearing and he was easy on the eyes. All in all, Travis was a minefield of temptations, but her instincts assured her that she’d found the right partner for what lay ahead.

“We’ll restore the balance,” he said, cutting into her thoughts. “We’ll cover each other’s back and do what has to be done.”

Chapter Four

As they rode in silence to the feed store on the southwestern edge of Three Rivers, his words echoed in her mind. Most of the high-impact men she’d known would have been reluctant to even allude to an equal partnership. Yet Travis’s brand of maleness wasn’t easily threatened because it was rooted in self-knowledge.

They soon arrived at Franklin’s Feed. To her surprise it hadn’t changed much over the years—except for a coat of paint, which was already fading. A graveled parking area still surrounded the small stucco building with the corrugated metal roof. A hitching rail stood beside the sidewalk, though she suspected it hadn’t been used in years. A store employee was currently helping a rancher load up his long-bed pickup truck with fifty-pound bags of sweet feed.

“Some things always stay the same,” she said. “Does Bob Franklin still run the place?”

“Bob’s retired. His son, Jim, our former classmate, is the one who handles the store these days. He’s a chip off the old block.”

They went inside, Crusher at heel on Travis’s left side. The store’s cat, an old gray of questionable breed, scampered out of the room and into one of the storage areas.

“Is Jim Franklin around?” Travis asked the middle-aged woman by the register.

A smiling face beneath a black baseball cap suddenly popped up from behind the main counter. “Hey, look what the cat dragged in!” Jim greeted. Well versed in the customs of the Navajo, Jim didn’t offer to shake hands. “So, what brings you here today?”

“Where can we talk in private?” Travis asked, keeping his voice low.

“Back room. Come on.” When Laura stepped up, he turned to look at her, did a double take, then smiled. “Skinny, is that you?” he drawled.

“Yeah, Jim. I didn’t think you’d recognize me,” she said, shaking his hand.

“You sure grew up,” he said, giving her a long once-over.

“She’s helping the department with an investigation,” Travis said, all business now.

She looked over at Travis, surprised by his abrupt change in tone. It wasn’t jealousy…more like defining boundaries. It was one of those guy things she’d never quite figured out.

Jim cleared his throat, obviously getting the message. “What’s up, buddy?” he said, keeping his voice low as they followed him into a storage room crowded with pallets of animal feed, stock tanks and fencing.

She noticed how he avoided calling Travis by name. She’d also remembered what Travis had taught them, that Navajos believed a person’s name had power that belonged to its owner. Using it needlessly depleted an individual of an asset that was uniquely theirs to draw on in times of trouble.

“I need to know if you’ve sold any fertilizer within the past week. Ammonium-nitrate crystals, specifically, in the big bags,” Travis said.

Jim raised an eyebrow. “It’s a bit late in the season for that, but I don’t know for sure offhand. Three people work the cash register these days, not just me. I’d have to check.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Travis answered.

“No problem.” Jim walked out front, went behind the counter and sat by a computer on a desk against the wall.

They followed and stood behind him, watching him work. Jim fiddled with the mouse and keyboard, going from screen to screen, then cursed as the display locked up. “I hate this danged thing! New or not, it keeps crashing. I’ve had Lester out here twice already. He says it’s the user, not the interface.” He shook his head and moved the mouse around some more, going through several windows. After a few minutes, he looked up again.

“Okay, I’ve got it. The last bags I sold were back in April. The weather’s too hot to fertilize now, but we’ll sell more again in the fall. Ammonium nitrate stores well.”

“Who purchased the bags?” Travis pressed.

“Mike Petersen bought all six. He grows a lot of corn and sunflowers.”

“And you’re sure you didn’t sell that brand of ammonium nitrate to anyone else?” Travis asked.

Jim shook his head. “That’s it,” he said. “I keep track, be cause, you know, it can be used to make explosives.” He paused, then added, “But come to think about it, I had a break-in about two weeks ago. Not much was taken, not that I could tell anyway. The person cut open some bags, marked up a couple of saddles and tipped over several stacks of feed in the back room.”

“Did you report that to the department?” Travis asked him.

“Sure I did. My insurance requires it.”

“Is it possible a bag or two of fertilizer was stolen at that time?” Laura asked him.

Travis glanced her way, his eyes narrowed. “Did you ever check?” he added, turning back to Jim.

Laura bristled, but the message was loud and clear. She could ride along but it was his case.

“My inventory software has some bugs, or maybe I screwed it up. Take your pick,” Jim said, letting his breath out in a hiss. “So I can’t really tell you for sure if anything’s missing. But I do recall that several bags of ammonium nitrate were tipped over and three had split open. I had to do a lot of sweeping up and repackaging.”

“Do you have any idea who was responsible?” Travis asked.

Jim hesitated. “I think Roy Connors was behind it but I can’t prove it, so I didn’t give the police his name.”

“Connors… That name rings a bell,” Travis said.

“The guy spends a lot of time in the drunk tank since his wife left him. When I hired Roy, I told him I didn’t care what he did in his off time, just so long as he showed up to work on time—sober. I figured the man needed a break.”

“I remember him now. There was a brawl over at the Painted Pony,” Travis said. “Connors took a swing at the bartender and the bouncer had to jump in. It got out of hand fast after that. Every available officer was called to the scene. I nursed a sore jaw for days after somebody sucker punched me.”

“Roy came in with a black eye and skinned knuckles the next day,” Jim agreed with a nod. “I fired him not too long after that because he showed up to work drunk. The following week I had the break-in, the first one in years.”

They were on their way moments later. Travis got Connors’s last known address from dispatch and they headed east.

“Okay, what’s the plan?” she asked, shifting in her seat to face him.

“Crusher and I are going in to question a witness. That’s it.”

“Yes, but you can’t be sure he’ll be sober, and it looks like he’s quick with his fists,” she said. “I’m not armed but I’ve got a full canister of Mace in my pocket. If I go, too, I can help if it gets ugly.”

“No need. He’d have to be blind to even consider taking Crusher on. You might as well just stay in the car.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I’m going with you.”

He expelled his breath in a hiss. “Okay, but stay back and let me handle it.”

“What do you know about Roy?” she asked, not responding directly to his request.

“Not much, but I’ll know a lot more after I run him through the Report Review,” he said, pulling over and punching out the needed codes on his mobile dispatch terminal.

Moments later, incident reports came up on the MDT monitor. “He’s ex-rodeo and has a rap sheet three miles long, mostly due to alcohol-related incidents,” Travis said.

“There’s something else you might consider,” Laura said.

“Roy may have been paid to do the job. I’m thinking along the lines of ‘wreck the place to your heart’s content. Just take a bag of fertilizer and cut the rest open to throw off the weight count.’ What do you think?”

“Interesting theory, but before we reach any conclusions, let’s see what he has to say,” Travis said.

Leaving the old highway that now served as a truck bypass, they drove down a long dirt road. Eventually they reached a single-wide trailer that looked as if it had seen better days decades ago. Travis parked just out of view of the front windows, then sat back and watched the mobile home.

“He’s not Navajo, is he? We don’t have to wait out here to be invited in.”

He smiled. “You remembered.”

“Of course I do. But that doesn’t answer my original question.”

“I want to get a better feel for things before we go charging in there.” He glanced at Crusher, who stood up, ready to go, then looked back at the trailer. “Judging from the music coming over the radio, I’d say he’s home. But no one’s looked out, so he might not know we’re here.”

“Or he’s passed out. See all those bottles at the top of his trash can?” She pointed to the gray, overflowing plastic waste bin.

“Whatever the situation, stand down unless I tell you differently. Let’s go,” he said.

He climbed out of his unit, letting Crusher out behind him. The dog remained on Travis’s left and Laura moved to the far right, making sure they didn’t line up too closely and turn themselves into easy targets.

Tension thrummed through Travis. Laura could see it in the rigid set of his spine and the lack of emotion on his face. Standing to one side of the door, he knocked loudly and identified himself. No one answered. When Travis tried a second time, they heard a low grumble from inside.

“Hold your horses,” a groggy voice said.

They heard slow footsteps coming closer. Soon the door swung open about a foot. In front of them stood a bleary-eyed man whose weathered face looked as if he’d placed last in a boxing tournament.

“I ain’t buying or praying, so scram,” he muttered.

Laura sized Roy Conners up quickly. He was wearing a T-shirt with no sleeves, and she could see the tattoo of an anchor and chain. He was navy, or at least he had been at one time. From the size of his upper arms, she was pretty sure he worked out as hard as he drank. The combination, from her point of view, wasn’t good. He obviously liked thrills and danger, judging from the rodeo-circuit trophies on the shelf directly behind him.

“Hey, pretty lady,” he said, giving her a grin as he stepped out onto the wooden steps.

“I’m Detective Travis Blacksheep,” Travis snapped, forcing the man to focus on him. Crusher growled softly, ensuring it.

“I want to ask you some questions about an incident over at Franklin’s Feed.”

“I heard about that. Jim would love to pin that break-in on me, but it ain’t gonna work,” he said with a smug smile.

“I’m not after the person responsible. I just want to know what happened to some missing bags of fertilizer,” Travis said, playing a bluff.

Something flashed in Roy’s eyes, but it happened so fast, Laura wasn’t sure if Travis had noticed it, too.

For a heartbeat no one moved, then suddenly Roy threw a quick jab at Travis’s face.

Travis saw the punch coming and feinted left, simultaneously sinking his fist into the man’s hard belly.

As Roy doubled up, Crusher brushed past Travis and rose to his hind legs, knocking Roy backward onto the floor of the trailer. The entire unit rocked like a boat in a storm.

Travis, still holding on to Crusher’s leash, was pulled to his knees as Roy scrambled to his feet and ran down the interior hall of the trailer. Travis quickly released Crusher and the dog gave chase, followed by Travis then Laura.

Roy jumped out the back door, slamming it behind him. Crusher, a few feet behind, hit the metal panel full force with his paws. Something snapped and the door flew open, dangling from the top hinge.

“Stay here. Crusher will pin him in a minute or two,” Travis yelled, heading after his dog.

Laura looked out just as Roy, the dog and Travis disappeared into the brush behind the trailer. As she jumped down out of the trailer—there was no porch there—a flash of movement caught her eye.

Crusher had reached Roy, who’d tried to circle around, and using his massive bulk, knocked the cowboy to the ground. Growling deeply and resting his huge front paws on the man’s chest, Crusher kept him pinned.

“Atta way, Crusher!” she called, running over.

“Get this wild hog offa me,” Roy managed. Every time he shifted, Crusher pushed him back down. “Jeez, I’m drowning in drool.”

Travis arrived at the same time as Laura. “I’m going to order the dog to release you,” Travis said, “but he’ll knock you right back down if you try to make a run for it.”

“Yeah, okay. Just get him off me,” Roy said.

“Looks like you should have cooperated,” Laura said as the man rose to his knees. “Now you’re going to jail for assaulting a police officer.”

“Hey, the dog assaulted me.”

“Not until you attacked his partner,” Laura said.

Travis handcuffed Roy, reciting his rights as he led him back around the mobile home to the SUV.

While Travis was securing the prisoner, Laura took a quick look through the mobile home. She came out after a few minutes and met Travis, who was checking around the outside of the single-wide.

“There aren’t any fertilizer bags in there and there’s no garden, not unless you count the green stuff growing on the cheese in his refrigerator,” she said. “You might want to have the lab check for traces of nitrates or diesel fuel or request an explosives dog.”

“Let’s see if we can get anything out of him. He’ll be sharing the backseat with Crusher all the way to the station.”

She chuckled softly. “If that doesn’t work, nothing will.”

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