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  But he also seemed to be competent and knowledgeable. He went over the results of both autopsies, showing them the tears in Larry Parker’s abdomen. “Looks like he was killed by someone who hunts and knows how to gut his prey,” Fuller said. “The killer didn’t remove any organs, though, just cut him open as if he was going to disembowel him.”

  Candace Parker had been shot once in the chest, a fatal wound. Her heart had been nicked, and she’d bled out quickly.

  “In case you’re wondering how I can be so sure about the bullets, I do frontier reenactments with some of the people from my club,” Fuller explained.

  “And they were both killed with the same gun?” Matt asked. “Sorry if that sounds like a strange question, but we never assume anything. Based on the evidence the police found at the scene, it seems unlikely, but there could have been two killers.”

  “No question is too strange. I just answer what I can,” the ME told them. “Same kind of bullet in both cases, and like I said, I know the official forensic analyst has to do a report, but I can tell you right now that both bullets were made from a mold older than the hills and fired from an antique Colt. I have a few in my collection, and I’m betting it was one of the army Colts, pre–Civil War. I’d even go so far as to speculate that it might have been something like an 1849 Colt pocket percussion revolver. A lot of frontiersmen had personal molds. Not only that...” He paused and shrugged. “Sorry for getting carried away. I’m just the medical examiner. You guys are the investigators.”

  “We want your thoughts and opinions,” Diego assured him. “You clearly know more than we do about antique weapons, and probably more than the police techs.”

  “Okay, well, like I told you, I’m a historical reenactor in my free time. Like everybody else around here, I know about Nathan Kendall. As strange as this may sound, it looks to me like someone killed the Parkers the same way Nathan Kendall and his wife were killed. Nathan was cut up before he was killed— tortured, really—like maybe the killer wanted something from him. And the woman... I think she was just in the way. Same thing with the Parkers.”

  Diego had been studying the body of Candace Parker as Fuller talked. She’d been an attractive woman in her early thirties. Now it was difficult to tell exactly where the bullet had penetrated, because the Y incision had been sewn up by the time they arrived. He noticed that her legs seemed to be scratched.

  “Are these wounds recent?” Diego asked.

  “Those, yes, they’ll be in the report. They look like they happened as she was dragged through scrub or thorn bushes of some kind.”

  Fuller went on to point out marks at both the Parkers’ wrists. “You can see where they were bound. Bound, and maybe dragged up the mountain.”

  “They haven’t found their car yet,” Matt said. “I’m guessing they were stopped and probably threatened at gunpoint. Most people, with a gun pointed at them, do what they’re told. We all play for time.”

  Brett turned to Fuller and asked, “Have you heard anything about another set of remains found up in the mountains?”

  Fuller seemed surprised. “Thought the local authorities were keeping that quiet. They’re looking at bone and some tissue fragments. I’m not involved. They brought in a forensic anthropologist.”

  “Do you know who?” Brett asked.

  “I don’t, but I know who could tell you more,” Fuller said.

  “Let me guess—Lieutenant Gray?” Diego asked.

  Fuller nodded. They thanked him and left the morgue, walking out into a beautiful sunset.

  “Anyone need to stop anywhere before we get back to the ranch?” Matt asked.

  “I think we need to get back,” Diego said. “We should talk to Ben and Terry, for one thing.”

  Darkness was coming, and though he didn’t know why, he was growing increasingly uneasy. He knew Meg was a good agent, but he also knew that even the most experienced agent, working alone, could run into trouble.

  And there was something about night falling...

  It was darker here than he’d expected, and the forests were filled with life, not all of it friendly.

  “I definitely think we should get back,” he said emphatically.

  “Let’s do it,” Brett agreed.

  6

  “Nathan Kendall’s story isn’t unique—not among Southern soldiers who were displaced after the Civil War,” Scarlet told Meg.

  They were seated at her desk at the back of the museum, where she kept her files and had her computer set up. She didn’t have an actual office, only this space between two display cabinets. To either side of the desk against the wall were bookshelves holding titles like Know Your Colt, Smith & Wesson—the First Years and Get to Know Winchester! Her work chair was comfortable, and there were two easy chairs in front of the desk, along with a few scattered straight-back chairs for those who wanted to pick up a book and browse for a few minutes.

  Meg sat in one of the easy chairs, studying one of the historic diaries that was kept under lock and key, and wasn’t available for public perusal.

  Nathan had kept a series of diaries, an ongoing journal of his life, both during the war and after. Scarlet had read it and found it extremely moving. She and Ben had actually discussed publishing it. He wanted a university press to take it on, and she didn’t disagree, though she knew getting the right person to acquire it and shepherd it through the process wouldn’t be an easy task.

  “I can only imagine what it must have been like—felt like—and how bitter the men must have been after fighting so long and losing,” Meg said. “Losing their homes, then seeing people come down from the North, intent on making money off their misery, taking over their shops and farms and even the government.” She sighed. “If John Wilkes Booth hadn’t shot Lincoln, the aftermath of the war might not have been so bad. Then again, you probably had some toughs on both sides who were going to take advantage of the confusion to become criminals no matter what. Like at least one of these bandits Nathan Kendall rode with,” she said, indicating the leather-bound journal she’d been reading.

  “Do you think it will matter—as far as finding out who killed the Parkers, I mean—if we discover who killed Nathan and Jillian Kendall?” Scarlet asked.

  “Considering it seems pretty clear that the killer intentionally imitated the Kendalls’ murders, it’s certainly possible,” Meg said. “Understanding the human mind is really the last frontier, and when it comes to killers, you’re talking some of the most twisted logic you can think of. At the moment, this seems like a relevant avenue to explore. Amazing to think that this man was actually your ancestor.”

  Scarlet laughed softly. “It didn’t really mean much to me when Ben first told me. I knew I was basically an all-American mutt but until I came out here, my ancestors were just people who lived, worked, had families and died. But now I realize they were all individuals and they seem so much more real to me. You’re reading Nathan’s journal of the war years, right?” Scarlet asked her.

  “Yes, and it’s so sad. I’m at the part where his friend Jeff Bay—one of the guys he wound up riding with during his outlaw days—found out that his wife died in childbirth.”

  “I’ve read it,” Scarlet told her. “Heartbreaking.”

  Meg nodded. “Listen to this. ‘I watched my friend crumple. He fell to the ground at first, no sound coming from him. Then he let out a wail louder than the most plaintive call of a thousand wolves. Had the enemy been within reach, they would have heard and known where to find us. The day after, we began the terrible fight at Gettysburg, and at first I did not believe that Jeff would make it through, he walked so boldly into the fray. We pulled him from certain death time and time again. But the second day of battle was even more horrible. My friend became an unstoppable killer, as if he was mindless of all else. I am amazed that he alone did not win us that battle, for he wa
s responsible for a field of graves that day.’”

  “Hang on,” Scarlet murmured, looking over at Meg. “This is after he bought this property.”

  “Anything?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s lovely,” Scarlet said, and started reading aloud. “‘Today is the start of a new life for us. Of course, thank the Lord above, it is possible only because I have never been prosecuted for the terrible things I did. Billie didn’t understand how I felt when I told him that I had to leave the company. He said that a good Yankee was a dead Yankee, and all the better dead now, since we’d missed killing him during the war. But I never did cotton to killing. I saw the eyes of those Northern boys, and I knew that they were just as scared of dying as I was. But I’d have to shoot anyway—just as they had to shoot—and somehow, by the grace of God, I came out of the war alive and whole. And now here I stand, about as close to Heaven as a man can get. I still cannot believe my good fortune that old Rollo sold this land to me for what I can afford to pay. But he wants to work some property a little south of here, hoping to find gold at last, and he needed the money for supplies. Rollo wants to get rich from gold. I just want to stay here forever and see the mountains, valleys and streams, every morning when I wake up. Those are the riches I want to live for now.’”

  Meg shook her head. “I’m glad he found peace, at least for a little while, before he was killed. Listen to this,” she said. “‘Sharpsburg today by Antietam Creek. The dead were falling on the dead, the injured were buried beneath blown-off limbs and bloody bodies. All those men dying, and somehow the screams of the horses sounded loudest in my head. Fighting next to Billie, there came a point when he rallied me. A fellow from our company fell next to me. I watched his eyes roll back, watched him die, and I froze where I stood. Billie kicked me to get me moving again. A Yank in front of me went down. Billie stood over him and put a bullet into his heart. He told me it was a mercy that he killed the fellow instead of leaving him there to die slow. But I saw the hatred in Billie’s eyes. He wants them all dead. Said even his father and brothers should die for joining the Yankee cause and turning against their own.’”

  “Billie sounds like one hateful man,” Scarlet said.

  “But honest about his hate,” Meg said. “Not the kind to hide in the shadows.”

  “In other words, you think that if Billie had killed Nathan, he would just have shot him straight out, he wouldn’t have tortured him first,” Scarlet said.

  “What about the father-in-law?” Meg asked.

  “I found an entry from the day Nathan met Jillian. It’s really sweet,” Scarlet said, smiling and flipping pages. She read: “‘She touched my soul like the first sight of the snow on the mountains. And when she turned to me and smiled, I felt as if the purity of the air and the warmth of the high sun had entered my heart.’”

  Meg smiled for a moment, but her voice was grim when she asked, “But what about the father?”

  “Oh, him. There’s this. ‘US Marshal Vickers is a master of authority or, dare I say, an outright bully. Perhaps I have the man all wrong and he is simply a good and doting father, worried for Jillian because of what he knows—or may know—about me. He fought for the North—I fought for the South. He should know nothing of my outlaw days, and yet he looks at me as if he does. I have never lied to Jillian. She knows everything about my past, yet I do not think she would have told him. Whatever his reason may be, her father has forbidden us to see one another. But my love—my sweet Jillian!—has informed him that she is an adult and a free woman, and that she will make up her own mind in this regard. Thus far, however, we meet only in secret. One day, she assures me, her father will accept me. He loves her and she loves me, so eventually, she insists, he must love me, too. I hope she is correct in this, though I fear she is blinded by the love of a daughter for her only living parent.’”

  “Would he have killed his own daughter?” Meg asked.

  “I hate to think of a father killing his daughter,” Scarlet said, shaking her head.

  “There are fanatics who would rather see their children dead than ‘defiled.’ And the evidence seems to say that Jillian caught the killer in the act. Vickers might have killed her to save himself,” Meg said.

  “I still think it has to be someone else,” Scarlet said.

  “We need to keep reading his journals. The way he was killed... I think someone wanted something from him, and the answer could be in the journals.”

  “It could have been anyone, then, one of his old running mates or someone from the area.”

  Meg laughed. “Which wasn’t well populated at the time, at least, so that makes our job easier.”

  “I know no one called them serial killers back then, but I’ve read that they existed. Or it could just have been someone with a grudge.”

  “Exactly,” Meg said, and looked over toward the stairs and the statue of Nathan Kendall.

  Scarlet looked over at the statue, too. She wasn’t sure why, but ever since it had shown up by her bed, she’d found it frightening.

  It was just a mannequin, she told herself. Of one of her own ancestors.

  She turned her head, choosing not to look at it.

  Because now, whenever she looked at Nathan Kendall, she felt as if he was looking back at her.

  She tried not to let Meg see the unease in her eyes. And she was glad that—awkward as it would undoubtedly be—she’d asked Diego to sleep with her.

  Yet, would it really be so awkward? She’d often wondered whether, despite what she’d done back then in response to the deep hurt and her wounded pride, life could change and they could somehow get back to the way they’d been. She’d thought about him so often on lonely nights, times when she couldn’t even talk herself into going out and enjoying the company of friends, much less contemplate dating again. Diego had filled her mind then, just as he did now. She remembered the first time she’d seen him, the first time he’d touched her, how her flesh had come alive at the mere feel of his finger idly touching her hand across a table, desire sweeping through her like the sweetest fire.

  There was a knock at the museum door, and Scarlet nearly jumped out of her chair. “Do you think the guys are back already?” she asked Meg.

  “I don’t know. Sit tight.” Meg was already on her way to the door. She opened it a crack and peered out. It wasn’t the guys.

  It was Lieutenant Gray.

  “Lieutenant Gray, hello,” Meg said. “How can we help you?”

  Gray seemed his usual hard-core, jaded self. “I understand it’s now all about how I can help you,” he said curtly. “I understand the FBI has taken the lead on this case.”

  Scarlet saw Meg quickly lower her head, as if to hide whatever she might have been feeling at the lieutenant’s displeasure.

  Apparently Adam Harrison and the Krewe of Hunters really did get what they wanted.

  “Well, then, thank you so much for making yourself available to us,” Meg said, her gratitude apparently genuine. “We don’t really see ourselves as taking the lead, though, We see all law enforcement as working together. Come on in—Scarlet and I have been reading through some old documents.”

  “Well, I’ve just been going through a few new documents—Mrs. McCullough’s recent inventory of the museum’s collection of weapons. And it seems that our list of pieces taken from the museum and her inventory don’t match up.” He looked past Meg to stare suspiciously at Scarlet. “One gun on your list isn’t in our evidence locker.”

  “What’s missing?” Scarlet asked.

  “An 1849 Colt pocket percussion revolver,” Gray told them. “And, according to the lab reports, it just might be the weapon that killed Larry and Candace Parker.”

  * * *

  Diego saw what was clearly an unmarked police vehicle in the Conway Ranch lot as they drove up.

  “What the hell?”
he muttered, feeling his tension grow.

  He suspected the car belonged to Lieutenant Gray, and he knew Gray resented their presence. Worse, the man was still convinced that Scarlet was somehow complicit in what was going on.

  “How much do you want to bet that’s Lieutenant Gray’s car?” he asked his fellow agents.

  “Not a dime, but he could just be here to give us information,” Brett said.

  “Oh, yeah, ’cuz he’s such a team player,” Matt muttered.

  “Well, let’s go see, shall we?” Diego asked.

  They went in without knocking, and to Diego it looked almost as if Scarlet had been waiting for them. And yet, when he strode in, looking at her questioningly, she almost smiled.

  “Upstairs,” she told him. “Lieutenant Gray—first name Ernie, by the way—is having a cup of coffee with us.”

  He looked at her in surprise.

  She shrugged. “He seems to have made a complete turnaround. Meg’s with him now. I just came down to turn on the outside light, in case it was dark by the time you got back.”

  “All right,” he said skeptically. “I guess coffee sounds good. And we need to talk to the man anyway.”

  “He’s also investigating the remains found up on the mountain,” Brett said. “I wonder what changed his mind about us?”

  “I think I can explain that,” Scarlet said. “It turns out he’s another of the many descendants of Nathan Kendall. Come on up,” she told the three men. “We’ve got sandwiches for dinner, too. And Lieutenant Gray is on a roll, telling stories.”

  “Wait, wait,” Diego said. “Gray came here to tell you that he’s a descendant of Nathan Kendall?”

  “No,” she said, serious now. “He came to tell us that we’re missing an 1849 Colt pocket percussion revolver. When they compared my inventory to the weapons the forensic team took, they discovered that one is missing.”

  Diego looked over at Brett and Matt.

  So the couple had been killed with a weapon from the museum?