No Escape (Texas Rangers 2)

“Chances are, whoever smuggled this out for him is in the prison system, and they’d be savvy enough to wipe it clean. But it’s worth a shot.” He pulled out the papers and instantly recognized Smith’s handwriting. “During the investigation three years ago I read through thousands of papers like this one written by Smith.”

“When they were released after the trial, I was able to read some of his writing. The older papers could be rambling at times, and I had the sense he was tossing in extra details to manipulate the police, as if he were creating a maze of facts. This letter is specific and detailed. His thought processes are different.”

He studied her a beat before dropping his gaze to the papers. “Can you give me the digest version?”

“It’s an accounting of all his victims, why he chose them, how long he held them and where he buried them. There is one woman that never came up in the police investigations. Her name was Delores.”

Brody would read each and every word more times than he could count but right now he wanted Jo’s take. “Any other impressions?”

“I know prisoners have ways of smuggling goods in and out of prison. But wouldn’t someone have noticed him writing these papers?”

“Depends. He might have someone on the inside looking the other way while he wrote. He’s also spent lots of time in the infirmary.”

She frowned. “I called the prison. Smith is on heavy-duty pain meds. He’s comatose.”

Brody’s lips flattened. “He commented once that he couldn’t read as well when he took pain meds. And he’s been on the meds steadily for six months.”

“And yet he wrote in clear, legible handwriting.”

“He wrote these earlier?”

She arched a brow. “I don’t think he wrote them at all. Something about them bothered me as I was reading. The handwriting looks so much like his. In fact, there is little variation in the entire missive.”

Brody frowned as he stared at the words. “As if someone were working hard to make it look like Smith wrote this.”

“Exactly. I don’t think Smith wrote this manuscript.”

“His apprentice?”

“The student learned all he could from the master, going so far as to mimic his handwriting.”

Brody tipped his head back. “How does he know where you live, Jo?”

She frowned as if that notion was finally taking root. “I don’t know.”

The apprentice or one of Smith’s flunkies had stood outside Jo’s front door. “You have good locks?”

“The best. And I use them without fail.”

“Security system?”

“ No.”

“Get one.”

She considered the order. “I will.”

Disliking the worry in her gaze, he struggled to keep his voice steady. “What other impressions do you have from the writing?”

Jo shifted back to the facts, a place he knew gave her comfort. “Smith, or whoever wrote this, mentions Robbie several times. What I can’t tell is if Robbie was present at the killings.” She leaned forward, her soft perfume floating. “He discusses meeting Robbie, who apparently was twelve when the two met. The boy’s mother, according to this, had abandoned the boy. She’d been a prostitute. But there is no telling what is true about the boy and what isn’t. He speaks fondly of the boy, as a father would talk about a child. He details examples of the boy’s intellect and remarks how quickly he learned.”

“Is Robbie writing as he remembered or as he’d like to remember?”

“Assuming Robbie is the author, I would say a bit of both. We all have a way of rewriting history and casting ourselves as the hero/victim.”

“Why would Robbie want to confirm all of Smith’s kills?”

“Affection for a teacher. A father. He wants us to know exactly what Smith accomplished.”

He watched her fold her hands in her lap. A prim and proper move or hiding how fear made her hands tremble? “When we arrested Smith we found nothing that would link him to Robbie. There were no pictures, no letters or e-mails. His mention of an apprentice was the first I ever heard of the guy.”

“All the interviews you did and no one mentioned seeing a child or a young man?”

“None. Smith was known for taking out-of-town trips often. He always drove, took plenty of supplies and gassed up in Austin before he left.”

“No properties listed under his name?”

“Nothing.”

Brody set the letter down. “He was keeping the kid tucked away somewhere. There’s a lot of land in Texas to hide a small house or a trailer.”

“I’d like to see Smith again. We are running out of time. If he’s as sick as I hear, he’s not going to last long. I’m driving up to West Livingston today.”

“Unannounced?”

“I was hoping the warden would grant me entrance because we’ve met. You can’t stop me this time.”

Brody rose, pulled an evidence bag from his desk drawer and dropped the letters into it. “I’m coming with you.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“I don’t like the idea of you on the open road alone knowing Robbie or some other nutcase could be out there.”

He grabbed his gun from his desk drawer and slid it into his holster. “I’m assuming you’re free for the day.”

“I am.”

“Then let’s go. The weather’s good, so we’ll fly.”

Stick to the plan.

Dr. Dayton had repeated the mantra as he sat in his house alone, his tumbler of Scotch empty. Too early for a proper man to drink, but he’d stopped worrying about proper a long time ago. He refilled his glass and lifted his gaze to the wedding portrait of his wife, Sheila. Taken fifteen years ago, she wore a simple, white silk dress with a scooped neckline and a long lace drape that highlighted her smooth, brown skin, dark brown eyes and ice blond hair. She’d been so stunning when he’d first met her that he’d not been able to speak. He’d followed her around for days on their college campus, standing back and watching her. Finally, he’d gotten the nerve to approach her after a biology class. He could be charming when he wanted to be, and it took little to charm her. They’d become an item immediately, and by their senior year they were engaged.

After graduation he’d convinced her to work while he attended dental school. The plan was that she’d get her graduate degree when he landed his first job. But during that time, the dynamic between them shifted. She lost her zest for fun and became worried about finances. She’d talked of buying a house. Of children. All things he’d not wanted. He didn’t want more responsibility than they had, and he resented her constant nagging.

Somewhere along the way she’d transformed from a princess to a hag—the proverbial ball and chain.

And now she was gone.

Stick to the plan.

He’d been telling the police for months that Sheila had run away. She’d been as unhappy with their marriage as he and had met another man. He tried to convince the cops that she was alive and well and simply hiding out, likely laughing at all the heat he was getting from the cops.

The problem was the cops didn’t believe him. They believed that he’d hurt Sheila. Based on bullshit comments from her sister about Sheila’s fear of Dayton, the cops had gotten a warrant and searched their house from top to bottom. Shit, they’d swabbed the inside of the drains, searching for blood traces.

But in the end, they’d found nothing.

His dumbass attorney had brought him to Dr. Jo Granger to interview him so that they could use her testimony on his behalf. He’d agreed because he thought he could fool her. Several times, she’d nearly tricked him and made him reveal his secrets, but he’d caught himself. Just barely. But she’d been clever and had somehow peered behind the layers, as if he were made of translucent paper, and seen his true intent.

Dr. Jo Granger. She gave the impression that she was a cold woman. Ice. But she was smart enough to know that any red-blooded male liked a challenge. Liked the idea of me

lting that ice and seeing how hot she could get.

He’d had his share of fantasies of her since he’d seen her last Tuesday. It hadn’t been wise to follow her to the mall, but he’d been unable to resist. The delightful look of shock on her face had fueled his sense of power and desire.

Stick to the plan.

Jo Granger was not part of the plan. She was a diversion he did not need.

And yet, sometimes a man owed himself a treat.

Brody and Jo arrived at the West Livingston prison before noon. He’d offered to take her to lunch, but she’d refused, her stomach too knotted to eat. She’d done her best to keep her emotions tightly wrapped and her thoughts clinical, but she was a little freaked out about the package on her porch.

The more she’d read this morning, the more rattled she’d become. She’d checked all the windows and doors to make sure they were locked, and she’d carried her cell phone everywhere until she’d reached Brody.

Smith, his apprentice or someone else knew where she lived.

Brody secured his gun, and the two were escorted to the warden’s office where they were asked to wait.

“This can’t be good,” Jo said.

“Why do you say that?” Brody stood at the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Just a feeling.”

He turned and smiled. “I thought you were all about logic and facts.”

Her heels clicked crisply against the tiled floor. “Never underestimate the power of intuition.”

Seconds later the warden arrived. He shook hands with Brody and nodded to Jo. “I’m sorry you came all this way.”

“Why’s that?”

“Harvey Smith died two hours ago. Passed away in the infirmary.”

Brody’s face hardened. “He wasn’t expected to die so soon, was he?”

“No. His heart stopped,” the warden said, shaking his head. “All the women he killed and the families he ruined, and he not only cheated execution but the cancer.”