Feast Day of Fools (Hackberry Holland 3)

“And nothing else about the guy in the Trans Am?”

“Just what I told you.”

“Collins?”

“I’ve tried to call Marvin twice, but I go to voice mail.”

“Call the power company and ask them to call the radio in his truck.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There was blood in the horse tank?”

“That’s what the caller said.”

“I’m on my way. Get Pam out there.”

“She just walked in.”

“Put her on, please.”

“It’s Collins, isn’t it?” Maydeen said.

“That’s my guess.”

“You’ll probably beat the ambulance there. Wait till I get R.C. and Felix out there for backup.”

“Do what you’re told, Maydeen.”

“You’re too goddamn old and stubborn for your own good, Hack. You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

Pam picked up the extension. “What’s going on?” she said.

“We ROA at Anton Ling’s place. Maydeen will fill you in. Get ahold of Ethan Riser and tell him Jack Collins is probably in the neighborhood. Put out an APB on a Trans Am with no paint on it. Include Collins’s physical description.”

“Copy that,” she replied. “Hack?”

“What?”

“If you see Collins, forget the rules.”

“We never forget the rules.”

“Haven’t you figured it out? That’s exactly what Collins counts on.”

MAYDEEN WAS RIGHT. Because Hackberry was driving from his ranch, he arrived at Anton Ling’s property before the ambulance or the deputies from his department. The rain had stopped, and the great boundless baked emptiness of the land that was not unlike the floor of an ancient ocean seemed to have risen cool and green and washed from the storm, a blue and pink and turquoise rainbow arching over the hills, anchoring itself and its promise somewhere beyond the clouds.

Cody Daniels’s truck was parked in front of the house, the ignition wires ripped out. The lineman’s truck was parked close by, the driver’s door open, the keys gone from the ignition. There was no movement either inside or outside the house. Hackberry walked to the barn and the bunkhouse and the stucco cottage and looked inside. There was no one there, and the Trans Am was nowhere to be seen. He pulled his revolver from its holster and entered the house through the kitchen door, the pistol hanging heavily from his hand. The contents of the cupboards and the pantry had been raked on the floor. Through a side door, he could see into the room that served as a chapel. The statue of the Virgin Mary had been broken in half, and the tiered rack of votive candles had been flipped over and the candles and glass holders smashed and ground into the floor. The small altar had been flung into the folding chairs, the white altar cloth grimed with footprints.

The only sound he heard was the wind flapping the curtains on the windows. Through a doorway, he could see the dining and living rooms. The pictures had been stripped from the walls and the dining table turned over, as though someone had been looking for something taped under it, the fabric on the stuffed chairs sliced open.

“This is Sheriff Holland! Who’s in here?” he called.

“Sheriff?” a familiar voice said.

“That’s what I said.”

“It’s Cody Daniels.”