Gambling On A Dream. Sara Walter Ellwood
“That too. Have a good one, Chief.” He slipped on a warn denim jacket and looked around. “Hope your luck’s better than mine, boys.”
After Tate left, Chief glanced at Talon. He took the chair across from his grandfather. Something in his stark expression must have alerted Chief that Talon wanted to talk and didn’t want an audience.
“Gentlemen, I’d like a word with my grandson.”
A moment later, they were alone, and the old Comanche, who everyone in town called Chief, including his grandchildren, leaned forward over his crossed arms, resting on the table, and waited.
Talon stared at the scuffed table and took a deep breath. No use beating around the bush with Chief. He’d always admired the old man’s no-bullshit personality. “I’m going to Vegas.”
Chief raised a brow. “Thought your sister told you to stay put.”
Talon huffed between his teeth. “I can’t do that. Something’s come up, and I have to go.” He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and laid it on the table. “Please give this to Mom.”
Chief glanced at the white envelope but didn’t pick it up. “Son, I know you don’t have anything to do with the crap that’s goin’ on ’round here, but if you leave, you’ll only make yourself look as guilty as a half-dressed whore at a church picnic.”
Talon tapped his fingers on the table. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that, but if he didn’t leave now, he’d never forgive himself. “Just tell Mom I’m sorry.”
Chief shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “I guess you ain’t gonna tell me why the sudden need for the Vegas vacation.”
Looking down at the table, Talon signed and shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Guess it’s best I don’t know. Then I won’t have to keep track of a bunch of lies.” He shuffled the cards in his hands.
Talon let a small smile touch his lips. Chief might be bursting with curiosity, but he wouldn’t press him to learn his secrets, which was the reason he'd come to his grandfather and hadn’t told anyone else in his family where he was going. He didn’t want to answer questions he wasn’t even sure the answers to.
The door opened behind him and he turned. The smile fell right off his lips. Damn, this was the last thing he needed to deal with right now.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” Chet Hendricks ambled into the room like he was John Wayne. “Teaching the boy your bad habits, Chief?”
Talon stood and faced the son-of-a-bitch who’d made his life hell since he was a kid. Surely, Dawn wouldn’t have sent Chet after him. “What do you want, Hendricks?”
Chet shrugged and moved around the outside of the dingy room. “Nothing but finding a murderer and drug dealer.” He faced Talon with a tight-lipped grin that never reached his hard eyes. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Blackwell?”
Talon had more than his share of assholes as arrogant and mean as Hendricks in his life. He glanced at his grandfather. “See you later, Chief.”
Hendricks stepped in front of him as he headed for the door. “Not so fast. I want to know what you and Justin Vaughn were so chummy about. Heard you and he were talking yesterday. We all know he’s a two-bit dealer.”
What the hell was he talking about? Vaughn was the kid he'd bought apples for his horse from. Talon had gone to school with his mother and had always had a soft spot for him because the kid had dealt with the same shit he had to put up with while growing up.
The chair Chief sat on scrapped the floor as if he stood, but Talon didn’t look away from the deputy.
“Unless you are here on official business, Deputy Hendricks, I suggest you leave now, because police harassment is still illegal from what I understand. And I do believe the Constitution guarantees due process and innocence until proven guilty. Besides, you wouldn’t want it said you don’t follow the law to the letter, now would you? That might look bad in your campaign for sheriff.”
It never failed to amaze Talon when his dear ole granddad put away the vernacular of the illiterate Indian cowboy, which most folks in town believed him to be, and reverted to the speech of the college-educated man he was. Of course, when Chief pulled out the big words, it was his way of saying fuck off.
Hendricks backed up and smirked in a self-satisfied way. “Nice to know you got your whole family protecting you, huh?”
Talon fisted his hands, but common sense kicked him in the ass before he let a punch fly. He glanced back at the envelope still on the table. He had more important things to consider than knocking the head off Chet Hendricks, no matter how damned satisfying that might have been.
“If you’re arresting me, do it. If not, get the hell out of my way.” When Hendricks stepped to the side, he stalked past the deputy and out the door.
* * * *
Dawn pounded on the door of the apartment above a weathered tractor shed at Vaughn’s Farm and Garden Market. “Justin, this is Sheriff Dawn Madison, open up!”
When no response came, she looked over her shoulder at Wyatt. He moved his leather vest away from his shoulder holster and gripped the Colt 45. She took his cue and drew the Glock from her hip holster. With it pointed to the bright morning sky in her right hand, she tried the knob with her left.
The door opened slowly, and Wyatt moved into the dark, rank-smelling interior after he determined the place was clear. He went right into the tiny bedroom; she headed left toward the living space. The action so natural her heart stopped for a split second.
When the stench caused her stomach to churn, Dawn switched to breathing through her mouth. Her eyes adjusted to the dimness, and she scanned the messy room. Beer cans cluttered the tops of an old-fashioned iron sink and an ancient gas stove. Rust splotches pitted the dull white enamel of both.
The door of the 1970s Frigidaire stood open. The light inside flickering over shelves littered with takeout containers and a partial six-pack of Budweiser. A blackened tablespoon, two insulin syringes, and a burned down candle sat on the 1960s era aluminum table. One of the two miss-matched chairs was overturned, and yellowish stuffing poked out of the tears in the sagging greasy couch.
“Aw hell.”
Wyatt’s frustrated voice drew her attention to the doorway into the bedroom. He shoved his Colt into the holster. She rounded the unmade mattress to see what he'd found to make him feel safe enough to put away his gun.
He looked over his shoulder. “Well, we found Vaughn, but I don’t think he’ll be doing any talking.”
The eighteen-year-old lay flat on his back on the putrid carpet, surrounded by dirty clothes. He wore only a pair of filthy boxers. Inches from the bluish fingertips of his right hand lay a wide black piece of rubber and a syringe. Infected track marks darkened the inside of his elbows. But what probably killed him were the three blood-crusted stab wounds in his chest.
His sightless eyes stared at the ceiling, and his normally pale face and the bare skin of his chest had taken on the gray pallor of someone who’d been dead for a while.
She shoved her gun back into her side holster and knelt beside Wyatt. With a long exhale, she said, “You know, the stink when I opened the door should’ve been our first clue. Goddamn.”
Wyatt shook his head and stood. “Looks like the same MO as Larson’s murder.”
“Yeah. Probably killed for the same reason as Chris too. Shouldn’t surprise me. Vaughn’s been a petty dealer and user for years. I thought he was turning his life around after we arrested him in the spring.” She followed Wyatt to his feet, but the action was harder than it should have been. The weight of finding the killer settled squarely on her shoulders. Their only possible lead was literally a dead end. The only suspect was her brother, and she refused to think he had anything to do with this. She unclipped her