spat a stream of brown tobacco between the bars of the cattle guard. “Last owner set this place up as a trust. She gets to live here free the rest of her life. Damned if I know why. Then the bank gets it.”
“You know about Will Stirman?” I asked.
He gave me traffic cop eyes—like he could either shoot me or wish me a nice day. It was all the same to him. “We got worse problems. Evacuating this whole area. One more day of rain, that dam upriver is going to break. This whole valley’s gonna be under ten feet of water.”
“You warn Ms. Paz?”
“She ain’t going nowhere.”
“How do you figure?”
He made a dry, rasping sound that might’ve been a laugh. “You’ll see.”
He touched the brim of his hat and ambled back toward his cruiser.
Barrera looked wistfully at his mustard BMW, sitting useless on the side of the two-lane. We hiked into the ranch.
After a few yards, my boots were caked in limestone frosting. I was dripping with sweat. The mosquitoes were having a picnic on the back of my neck.
Barrera looked perfectly cool. His shirt and tie betrayed no speck of mud, not a single wrinkle. Something they taught at Quantico, I guessed. Staying Starched Under Stress, Course 2101.
“You’ve been out here since the trial?” I asked.
Barrera looked at me blankly. He returned his attention to the muddy slope. “No.”
He was never what you might call a sparkling conversationalist, but during the hour trip to Castroville, he’d been even less effervescent than usual.
That could’ve been because he had a lot on his mind, which was a guess. Or because he didn’t like me, which wasn’t.
“Who was the last owner of this place?” I tried.
“Businessman from San Antonio. Died a while back. Don’t remember his name.”
“He let Gloria Paz live here for free?”
No response.
Okay. Thanks, Sam. That clears it up.
I wished I was in Austin with Erainya—getting Jem settled, seeing Maia Lee, keeping the peace between the two heavily armed women in my life.
But Barrera was the key to understanding Stirman. I was sure of that.
He’d brought me out here to tell me something he didn’t want to say in front of Erainya. If I could get through the morning without killing him, I might find out what.
I tried to keep my mind off the mud and insects. I appraised the McCurdy spread from a business point of view. It struck me as more scenic and a lot less useful than my own family ranch in Sabinal.
The terrain was rocky and uneven—hills and limestone cliffs hugging the Medina River Valley, poorly suited for crops or cattle. Tourism might’ve worked. Summer cabins for tubers. Or goat ranching. Exotic game. But the McCurdy land didn’t appear to have been managed for any purpose in a long time. Cattle feeders stood rusted and empty. The barn was falling apart. A single emaciated heifer stood under a mesquite tree. Three vultures waited patiently on the branch above.
We were almost on top of the ranch house before I realized it was abandoned—a limestone shell in a thicket of live oaks. The windows were square holes of crumbling mortar. The doorway was an empty frame. The roof had been partially stripped, leaving a patchwork of metal and cedar beam.
Barrera hesitated in the doorway.
He didn’t need to explain why. The place radiated a quiet malevolence.
Inside were three empty rooms, a fireplace, a doorway in back that probably led to the kitchen. A mildewed watercolor of a fly fisherman hung crooked over the mantel. Most of the living room floor had been stripped to beams, revealing a cellar below. That was unusual in a Texas house. In most parts of the state, the winters were too mild, the soil too close to bedrock to make a cellar practical.
Barrera stepped carefully across rotten floorboards toward a set of descending stairs. I’d never been a fan of underground, but I followed him down.
The back half of the cellar was stacked with building materials—slabs of Sheetrock and plywood,
“You know about Will Stirman?” I asked.
He gave me traffic cop eyes—like he could either shoot me or wish me a nice day. It was all the same to him. “We got worse problems. Evacuating this whole area. One more day of rain, that dam upriver is going to break. This whole valley’s gonna be under ten feet of water.”
“You warn Ms. Paz?”
“She ain’t going nowhere.”
“How do you figure?”
He made a dry, rasping sound that might’ve been a laugh. “You’ll see.”
He touched the brim of his hat and ambled back toward his cruiser.
Barrera looked wistfully at his mustard BMW, sitting useless on the side of the two-lane. We hiked into the ranch.
After a few yards, my boots were caked in limestone frosting. I was dripping with sweat. The mosquitoes were having a picnic on the back of my neck.
Barrera looked perfectly cool. His shirt and tie betrayed no speck of mud, not a single wrinkle. Something they taught at Quantico, I guessed. Staying Starched Under Stress, Course 2101.
“You’ve been out here since the trial?” I asked.
Barrera looked at me blankly. He returned his attention to the muddy slope. “No.”
He was never what you might call a sparkling conversationalist, but during the hour trip to Castroville, he’d been even less effervescent than usual.
That could’ve been because he had a lot on his mind, which was a guess. Or because he didn’t like me, which wasn’t.
“Who was the last owner of this place?” I tried.
“Businessman from San Antonio. Died a while back. Don’t remember his name.”
“He let Gloria Paz live here for free?”
No response.
Okay. Thanks, Sam. That clears it up.
I wished I was in Austin with Erainya—getting Jem settled, seeing Maia Lee, keeping the peace between the two heavily armed women in my life.
But Barrera was the key to understanding Stirman. I was sure of that.
He’d brought me out here to tell me something he didn’t want to say in front of Erainya. If I could get through the morning without killing him, I might find out what.
I tried to keep my mind off the mud and insects. I appraised the McCurdy spread from a business point of view. It struck me as more scenic and a lot less useful than my own family ranch in Sabinal.
The terrain was rocky and uneven—hills and limestone cliffs hugging the Medina River Valley, poorly suited for crops or cattle. Tourism might’ve worked. Summer cabins for tubers. Or goat ranching. Exotic game. But the McCurdy land didn’t appear to have been managed for any purpose in a long time. Cattle feeders stood rusted and empty. The barn was falling apart. A single emaciated heifer stood under a mesquite tree. Three vultures waited patiently on the branch above.
We were almost on top of the ranch house before I realized it was abandoned—a limestone shell in a thicket of live oaks. The windows were square holes of crumbling mortar. The doorway was an empty frame. The roof had been partially stripped, leaving a patchwork of metal and cedar beam.
Barrera hesitated in the doorway.
He didn’t need to explain why. The place radiated a quiet malevolence.
Inside were three empty rooms, a fireplace, a doorway in back that probably led to the kitchen. A mildewed watercolor of a fly fisherman hung crooked over the mantel. Most of the living room floor had been stripped to beams, revealing a cellar below. That was unusual in a Texas house. In most parts of the state, the winters were too mild, the soil too close to bedrock to make a cellar practical.
Barrera stepped carefully across rotten floorboards toward a set of descending stairs. I’d never been a fan of underground, but I followed him down.
The back half of the cellar was stacked with building materials—slabs of Sheetrock and plywood,
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