Cold Wind - C. J. Box [130]
He was wondering how Shamazz knew the keypad combination when Marybeth called on his cell phone.
“Mom called,” she said. “They’re having an acquittal party at the Eagle Mountain Club tonight.”
“An acquittal party?”
“That’s what she called it. She wants to know if we’ll come.”
Joe winced.
She said, “If she asks us about her offer, what are we going to say?”
“You mean, do we want to take over a multi-million-dollar ranch and never have to worry about financial difficulties ever again in our lives?” Joe said.
“When you put it that way . . .” Marybeth said, but didn’t finish her sentence. “Did you hear about Bud?”
“No,” he said, expecting the worst.
“He’s in a coma. No one expects him to come out of it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Joe said.
“It’s awful. It’s just awful. I suppose I should feel good about all this—not about Bud, of course, but about how the trial went—but I guess I can’t wrap my mind around it yet.”
“Me neither,” Joe said, thinking about Bud Jr. and Sally driving to the ranch with a trailer attached.
When it hit him, he felt something cold and sharp shoot through his stomach and chest. The calls between Missy and Bud. The rifle in her car. Bud’s last-minute revelation and recanting. Missy’s odd behavior from the arrest to the end of the trial. As if . . .
He said, “I’ve got to go now. I’ve got to check something out.”
“So what about tonight?”
“I may not be able to make it. I’ll let you know,” he said, closing the phone.
He tossed the rest of his sandwich out the window, put his pickup in gear, and nosed the vehicle off the knoll in the direction of the wind farm.
Joe parked next to the wind turbine where he’d discovered Earl Alden’s body. He got out and called for Tube to follow him.
His dog was ecstatic to be out of the truck on such a fine clear day. He wasn’t as pleased when Joe looped a chain around his middle and started hoisting him up inside the tower.
40
A few minutes before midnight, Joe saw a sweep of headlights across the interior walls of the house and heard the crunch of gravel outside in the ranch yard. The garage door opener growled, and he stood up in the dark, approached the window, and parted the curtains to see Missy’s Hummer enter the open door. She was alone, it appeared. Good. He doubted she’d been able to see his vehicle, which was hidden behind the shop.
He checked to see if anyone was right behind her, but there were no other headlights on the entrance road. Yet. He sat down on a plump leather couch burned tastefully with Thunderhead and Longbrake Ranch brands, checked the loads in his shotgun, and waited.
In a minute, sounds came from the kitchen; the clinking of glass and the scuffling of cabinets being opened and closed. As he approached, he could hear her humming lightly to herself.
Joe stood at the threshold of the kitchen in the dark hallway, watching her fill the coffeemaker with grounds and water and pull down a half dozen mugs and set them on the counter. She held a full glass of white wine and sipped from it as she worked. She looked stunning, Joe thought, in a snug dark blue dress and oversized pearls. She’d kicked her heels off on the floor and padded around on small bare feet.
When she saw him standing there, she gasped and let out a squeak and dropped the glass to the floor.
“Joe!” she said, hopping back from the broken glass and spilled wine. “What are you doing here? You scared me to death.”
He said, “I assume Marcus Hand and his crew are on the way. How long before they get here?”
She looked up at him, quickly regaining her composure. Her brows furrowed and her face became the porcelain mask she’d perfected. “They won’t be long. Everybody had plenty to drink, and I wanted to have some coffee ready. You missed the party.”
He nodded and entered the kitchen and put the shotgun on the counter next to him, letting her see it.
She shook her head, then let some anger seep through the mask. “Does Marybeth know you’re here? What are you doing, measuring