She held her folder with hands that seemed to freeze around it. When the recording finished, both men were watching her.
“Nine?” she asked. She’d heard Jackson the first time. She’d just needed to say something.
“Yes,” Jackson said. “I’ll pick you up at the Longhorn.”
“One more thing.” Jake touched a key. The picture on the large computer screen changed.
Another young woman of about twenty-five smiled out at her. She was wearing a tiara on sandy-colored hair.
“That’s our missing girl,” he said. “Vanessa Johnston. Last year’s Miss Maple Queen of Montpelier, Vermont.”
Kelsey rose. “I’ll have these read by tomorrow and be completely up to speed,” she told Crow. “I’m in, provided you still want this team to exist if Raintree opts out.”
She was surprised when Crow smiled grimly. “He’ll be at the morgue tomorrow, and he won’t opt out.”
Kelsey decided not to answer. Raintree hadn’t looked as if he planned to agree. Not in her opinion, anyway.
But then, maybe she was better at understanding the dead than the living.
“Good afternoon,” she said. And she left the two men, still feeling the same sense of dread.
And the same sense of purpose.
* * *
Logan drove straight to his own office. Others greeted him as he walked through the main room, both those sworn in as Texas Rangers and civilians busy at other tasks. The world hadn’t changed for any of them; they waved at him, smiled, chatted. He went to Captain Aaron Bentley’s office, tapped on the door, but walked in without waiting for an answer. Bentley was on the phone. He was a big man with snow-white hair, as rugged-looking as any man who’d ever run a Texas Ranger division.
Bentley seemed to be expecting him. He lifted a hand in greeting and ended his conversation.
“What the hell did you send me into, sir?” Logan demanded.
“Sit down,” Bentley told him. Logan stood there stiffly for a minute, then sighed and took the chair in front of Bentley’s desk. “Sir—”
“Oh, don’t ‘sir’ me,” Bentley said. “We’ve been together too long for that.”
“I’ve been good at my job,” Logan said.
“You have.”
“So…”
“So, I’m trying to get you onto a team where you can really be of service. Is that going to be on the Texas level or on the national level?” Bentley murmured. “I had to ask myself where you could do the most good, Logan. And if I’m honest, it’s with this new team. Your instincts have helped us in hundreds of cases. You have the sort of mind that reads others, and you’ve predicted the course of a perp’s actions a dozen times. I thought we’d lost you after Alana died, but you headed out to that rock you love so much and your grandfather’s place, and you came back stronger. I’d like to keep you, but when the request comes down from the top of the food chain, you do what you need to do.”
“I’m told I have a choice.”
“You do. You have time to think about this.”
“What time? Captain, do you know what’s been going on? And if I’m so damned good at this kind of thing, why the hell didn’t I know?”
“The FBI has just shared its information,” Bentley said. “We’re in process of analyzing it, and supplying them with whatever info we can find. Every law enforcement agency in the area will be on the hunt now. But, Logan, you…”
Bentley’s voice trailed off. Bentley’s voice never trailed off. Logan knew they were both thinking about the same thing—what had happened with Alana.
“The Rangers have changed over the years, Raintree,” Bentley said, recovering his voice. “We’re a true law enforcement agency under the Texas Department of Safety. You know as well as I do that we’re actually older than Texas as a republic, a state, a Confederate state and a U.S. state again. Hell, when Stephen Austin organized Rangers to protect the frontier while the Anglos were first moving in, we were frontier guards, and that was our business for a long time. Then we battled the Mexican government, and the Native American tribes, and the outlaws. We kept peace on the frontier until there was no more frontier. We had our valiant moments in the sun, and we were some of Zachary Taylor’s finest troops in the Mexican-American war. At times we also acted like a law unto ourselves. Those days are over—for all their brilliance. We’re a respected law enforcement agency. We serve a higher god, you might say. And that’s the thing, Logan. No matter how you look at it, we’re part of the greater good.”
He had neatly sidestepped the real conversation.
Alana.
Logan remained silent.
“Logan, the feds have way more power than I can ever have or give,” he said in a resigned voice. “And this team the government wants to set up—it has a direct connection to the most powerful law enforcement men in the country. Anything that can be done within constitutional limits will be done. Warrants achieved at all hours of the day or night. In any city, any state of the Union. The right to cross geographical boundaries to chase the truth. I’ve heard that the man responsible for creating these teams has the White House on speed dial. But more than that, Logan, they have what you need, and you have what they need.”
He had what they needed.
Sitting there, he suddenly felt defeated. Nothing seemed real. He’d been pretending that his life could return to normal. Playing at being a good Ranger, following the clues, investigating leads. If he didn’t think about Alana, he could look back on his life as if it were history, as distant as the events at the Alamo.
“It’s a unique opportunity,” Bentley said.
Logan didn’t have anything more to say to Bentley. Except this, “I still have time,” he said as he rose from his chair.
“Yes.”
He exited the office, pausing at the door to turn around. “Thanks, Captain.”
“Raintree, you’re a great officer. I’ll be sorry to lose you.”
Logan didn’t deny that Bentley had lost him. But he wasn’t sure yet. He’d know in the morning.
* * *
Kelsey couldn’t decide where to go.
Her mind was spinning. She should get back to the Longhorn, log on to her computer and look up everything she could find on Jackson Crow and Adam Harrison and the Krewe of Hunters. But she wasn’t ready to go back yet; she wasn’t ready for questions or even for Corey Simmons and the ghosts of a century gone.
She needed to mull over the meeting.
She parked her rental car by the Alamo. She’d taken the tour several days ago. But there was something special about the place, an aura of a certain time, the acts of men who’d changed history.
And she couldn’t forget the recording she’d just heard. Chelsea Martin at the Alamo, laughing at first, happy as she talked to a friend. Then…gone.
And now…
Dead.
She wandered aimlessly for a while, watching as a group worked with schoolchildren, reenacting what had occurred at the fort. She gathered that one man was playing the role of Davy Crockett, and another, that of twenty-six-year-old Lieutenant Colonel Travis, who’d run the battle—since his co-commander, Jim Bowie, was in bed, probably dying, and probably of tuberculosis. A few men were playing other defenders, those who hadn’t