Chapter 7 #2
I start with the easy questions about how long he was in the business, what made him get out, how the stock contracting game has changed.
Flint answers in short, practical sentences, the way men of his generation answer questions they consider too simple to deserve elaboration.
He's the same breed as Colt: tight-lipped, built for endurance, allergic to wasted words.
The difference is that Flint's walls are built from fear where Colt's are built from fury.
He relaxes by increments. His shoulders drop. He refills his own mug. He tells me about a bull named War Paint that won Stock of the Year in 1998, and the pride in his voice is the first genuine emotion I've heard.
I let him talk. This is the part of my job I'm good at, the listening, the patience, the willingness to let a person arrive at trust in their own time.
Then I steer.
"I've been looking into some irregularities on the current circuit," I say.
"Financial discrepancies in prize payouts.
Stock contractors whose animals seem to produce an unusual number of injuries at their events.
" I pause and let the words settle like dust. "A lot of trails lead back to Thornton Livestock. "
The shift is instant. Flint's mug stops halfway to his mouth. His posture locks down like a gate slamming shut.
"Don't know much about Thornton's operation," he says. The words are too careful.
"I think you know more than you're comfortable saying." I set my own mug down and meet his gaze. "I'm not here to trap you, Mr. Flint. I'm here because a man named Grant Corbin died in a Las Cruces arena. The circuit called it an accident. I know it wasn't."
Flint goes very still.
"I knew Grant," I continue. "I know he was investigating fraud on the circuit.
I know he built a case. And I know he had people helping him, including a photographer named Rainey and a retired stock contractor who cared enough about the sport to risk something.
" I hold his gaze. "I think I'm sitting across from that stock contractor right now.
I have financial data that shows the fraud trail.
I'm not a threat to you, Mr. Flint. I'm trying to finish what Grant started. "
The silence stretches. The kitchen clock ticks loud enough to sound like a heartbeat.
Flint sets his mug down. He wraps both hands around it and studies the coffee like it's got answers swimming in it.
"You look a little like him," he says, his voice quiet, almost to himself. "Your eyes remind me of him."
The ground drops out from under me.
I keep my face still. I call on years of journalism training, years of sitting across from people who are deciding whether to trust me with something that could change their lives, and I use every second of it now. My hands stay flat on the table. My breathing stays even.
But underneath the professional surface, the grief slams into me so hard I feel it in my teeth. Somebody sees Grant in my face. Somebody besides me looks at these features and finds my brother there.
"I get that sometimes," I say. "People say I have one of those faces."
Flint watches me. He doesn't push it. But the look in his eyes says he's filed the observation away in a place where he keeps the things he's too smart to say aloud.
"There's a woman at the FBI," he says, finally. "Albuquerque field office. Her name's Torres. She works public corruption." He takes a slow breath. "Years ago, she looked into some suspicious deaths on the circuit. She couldn't prove anything. She told me to come back if I ever found a pattern."
The photographs on the wall come back to me. The young man with Flint's jaw and the same sharp gaze, wearing a championship buckle. The way Flint said "suspicious deaths" with a weight that sounded personal. I file the thought away and don't push it.
"Grant found the pattern," Flint continues. "He came to me because I knew the stock contracting side. I helped him connect the financials to the livestock operations. We had evidence, including photos, records, and documentation."
"What happened to it?"
"Rainey has it. The photographer, Grant's girlfriend." Flint's voice drops. "She was supposed to get the evidence to Torres if anything happened to Grant. Instead she disappeared."
"Do you know where she is?"
He shakes his head. "She called me once, about six weeks ago, from a blocked number. She said she was safe. She said she was scared. She said she'd come forward when someone could guarantee she wouldn't end up the same way Grant did." His hands tighten around the mug. "That was the last I heard."
"The camera crew at Las Cruces," I say. "The footage of the ride."
"Confiscated. Merrick's people claimed it as circuit property. The independent crew I helped Grant hire was paid off or intimidated. Every piece of evidence that existed at that arena was gone within twenty-four hours of his death."
He says Merrick's name the way you name a disease you've been fighting.
"Mr. Flint, if we can find Rainey and get the evidence package to Torres, the FBI has something to work with."
"You keep saying 'we.'"
"The man in the truck is Colt Holloway. He's been investigating since Grant died."
Flint's expression shifts. "Holloway. Grant's traveling partner. The one who rides like he's trying to get himself killed."
"That's the one. Though his last ride looked like he might be figuring that out."
"Grant trusted him." Flint says it like a verdict. "He told me once that if anything happened, Colt would be the one who wouldn't stop. He said the man was too stubborn and too angry to let it go."
"He was right about that." On both counts, I think, and then I shut that line of thinking down because this is not the time to catalog all the ways Grant knew how to read the people around him.
Flint is quiet for a long time. The light through the curtain gap moves across the table, and the clock keeps ticking, and the shotgun leans by the door like a third person in the conversation.
"Find Rainey," he says. "She has everything, including photos, financial documents, and copies of every record Grant gathered. You find her, you take everything to Torres. That's the play."
"That's the play," I agree.
"But be careful. Merrick has cleaned up every loose end so far.
Vic disappeared. The camera crew was paid off.
I've had strangers drive past this ranch three times in the last month, and nobody drives past this ranch by accident.
" His steady gaze holds mine. "Whoever you are, you're walking into the same fight that killed Grant.
Make sure you're ready for what that means. "
He walks me to the door. I'm almost through the screen when he puts a hand on my shoulder, and the weight of it stops me cold.
"Be careful with Holloway," he says. "Grant trusted him for good reason, but grief makes people dangerous. And that man is drowning in it."
"Grief makes people dangerous," I agree. "It also makes them relentless. Right now, I need relentless more than I need safe."
Flint studies me for a long moment, then nods once, like I've passed a test he didn't tell me he was giving.
"If Rainey calls you again, tell her to reach me." I pull a card from my press bag and write my burner number on the back. "That number, any time. Tell her she's not alone in this anymore."
He takes the card, turns it over, and tucks it into his shirt pocket without looking at it. "I'll pass it along. If she calls."
"Thank you, Mr. Flint."
"Don't thank me yet. Just bring these bastards down."
The weight of his hand lifts from my shoulder, and I walk back toward the truck on legs that feel less steady than they did going in. The grief I held in check at that kitchen table is pressing against my composure now, looking for cracks.
Colt is exactly where I left him, his driver's seat reclined two inches and his hat pulled over his face. He looks for all the world like a man catching a nap.
I know better. His body is coiled tight beneath the casual posture, every muscle primed. He was awake the whole time, watching the house through the gap under his hat brim, ready to come through the door if I didn't walk out.
I climb into the passenger seat and close the door, and the truck cab holds nothing but his cologne and my heartbeat. He pushes his hat up, and those steady, unreadable eyes find mine.
"Flint confirmed the FBI connection," I say. "Torres, Albuquerque field office, public corruption. He says she's been waiting for someone to bring her a case she can actually prosecute."
His jaw tightens. "I've called Torres. Multiple times. She won't return my calls."
"Because you're a bull rider with no evidence and a reputation for making accusations at public events. Flint says she needs something solid. We bring her what Rainey has, and she moves."