Chapter Twenty-Two
Brantley focused on the road and the navigation instructions as they turned off the main highway onto another. There were no flyovers or exits on this stretch of road, simply stop lights in the middle of busy intersections.
When he’d first looked at the map, he’d expected another long, mind-numbing drive.
Thankfully, their destination was closer than he anticipated, clocking in at a little over an hour from Coyote Ridge.
Having made the trek from Dallas the day before, it felt significantly shorter.
But it was still long enough for his anxiety to build, and the restlessness to settle in.
According to Reese, there was a pattern with the movements of the players they had identified up to this point, and it all seemed to be centralized in this location.
As for whether they could nail down anyone, that was to be seen.
Becs and Evan hadn’t had any luck when they’d spent a good part of their Sunday in Dripping Springs flashing Allison’s picture to the shop owners and customers.
But Brantley was willing to do whatever he needed in order to get Kylie back and nail the bastards who’d disrupted the lives of so many people with their greed.
If that meant knocking on every door in every small town, by God, he would damn well try.
Fuckers.
Oh, yeah. He was more than pissed, and thinking about how Martin Calloway had single-handedly fucked up a good family only exacerbated his rage.
Kylie was the glue that held that family together, and Calloway had taken her away.
For what? It still seemed ludicrous that he would think faking her death would draw her mother out of hiding or that Meredith Prescott’s testimony would even hold up in court. It made no fucking sense.
“What’s on your mind?” Reese asked.
“I don’t get it. I just don’t understand how Calloway can hinge everything on one woman’s testimony. Especially a woman whose morals are as corrupt as his. Wouldn’t a defense attorney shred anything she had to say?”
However, it did make sense that he would use Kylie if he was looking for payback for Juliet’s death. That theory wasn’t as far-fetched, although he couldn’t quite wrap his head around it since Calloway had put his kid up for adoption when she was born.
“I think he’s past that now.”
His gaze darted to Reese briefly. “What?”
“I was up most of the night doin’ research. I came across Censorious’s manifesto.”
“Oh, fantastic. Can’t wait to hear it.”
Reese clicked something on his phone, then began to read, “Our mission is clear: to eliminate crime and create a safer society for all. We are committed to protecting those who cannot stand up for themselves and stepping in when the government fails. United, we strive for justice—building a world where evil is eliminated, no matter what it takes.”
Shaking his head, Brantley sighed. “Sounds like the musings of a madman.”
“You’re not far off. That was just the beginning. It goes on to explain how they intend to eliminate those they feel are a threat to society. They’ve got a list of offenders.”
“By name?”
Reese nodded. “But they don’t just target those they determine to be criminals. They’ve got specifics by race, gender, religion, and sexual orientation.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh, yeah. They’re racist, sexist, homophobic… It’s ugly.”
Great. Censorious was made up of a group of assholes who put targets on the backs of those who weren’t like them. Just what this world fucking needed, another hate group hellbent on proving they were superior.
Fuckers.
“I want this bastard,” Brantley said under his breath. He didn’t give a fuck if Max Adorite and Martin Calloway challenged one another to a duel in the middle of downtown Dallas. That was their prerogative. But he did care that Censorious was targeting innocent people.
“You’re not the only one,” Reese said, his tone harsher than Brantley’d ever heard it.
Taking a deep breath, Brantley glanced at the navigation. Their turn was coming up.
“Becs and Evan showed Allison’s picture at a few businesses in Dripping Springs,” Brantley told Reese. “I think they had the right idea. Just the wrong photo for this town.”
“You want to show Calloway’s photo.”
“Yeah. The team keeps comin’ up with this as a central location. I can’t imagine Calloway hasn’t been here. And because he would, I doubt he’s kept a low profile. That would draw attention.”
“Not if he’s hidin’.”
“Trust me. These people pay attention. Small towns keep an eye out for each other. If one person noticed him tryin’ to keep from bein’ seen, they would tell someone. Then it would become a thing. He would have to blend in—or try to—to stay off their radar.”
“He could have cronies doin’ his dirty work.”
Brantley had considered that. “No doubt about that. But Calloway would want to be front and center. Prove he’s the dick-swingin’ boss.”
Reese huffed a laugh. “Quite the picture you paint there.”
Brantley laughed. “You’re startin’ to sound like Atticus.”
Ten minutes after they crossed the city limits, they’d parked the truck on Main Street and started making their way from business to business.
To cover more ground, they had split up.
That was nearly two hours ago. Reese and Tesha were across the street, and based on the look on his face, Reese was having about as much luck as Brantley.
But it wasn’t time to give up yet.
Opening the door, Brantley stepped into a store that boasted fine art for sale.
What he found when he walked inside wasn’t quite what he was expecting.
This wasn’t the gallery of white with paintings highlighted by small beams of light as he’d thought.
No, the floor was dark-stained concrete with imperfections throughout, and there were large, round tiered tables from the front to the back, all holding what appeared to be a variety of tchotchkes and trinkets.
“Hey, there,” a deep, rusty voice called from the back. “Mornin’. What can I help you with?”
Brantley skimmed the rows of knick-knacks before turning his attention to the man walking his way. He was a bear of a guy, sporting a fluffy gray beard and a shiny bald head. The laugh lines around his eyes said the man had spent his years enjoying life.
“Mornin’,” Brantley greeted in return. “Nice place you have here.”
“Thanks.” He peered around, clearly proud. “We like it.”
Brantley wasn’t sure who we were, but he smiled, phone at the ready. Before he could show the picture, the man thrust out a hand.
“Bobby McEntire. And you are?”
He reminded himself that small towns were friendly and shook his hand in return. “Brantley Walker.”
“Nice to meet ya, Brantley.”
“Likewise.”
“What brings you in today? Need somethin’ for the wall? Or maybe the mantel?”
He gave the items a cursory inspection, then looked at Bobby. “I was actually wonderin’ if you’ve seen any of these people around here.”
“Hold on a minute,” the man said, digging in the bib of his overalls. He produced a pair of reading glasses and perched them on his nose.
The man took Brantley’s phone, all but kissing the screen.
He recognized that look—the one that said he was searching the deep recesses of his brain but coming up empty—so Brantley expected the same response he’d gotten from every other person he’d talked to, those who bothered to look at the photo or not.
“Can’t say I’ve seen her,” Bobby said, looking up. “She’s a pretty little thang, though.”
Brantley reached around, swiping the screen.
Bobby’s head tilted. “He looks kinda familiar. Not sure.”
Brantley swiped the screen one more time.
“Oh, yeah.” Bobby looked up, bushy eyebrows raised as he pointed at the screen. “That looks like ol’ Marty Callahan.”
“Calloway?” Brantley corrected.
Passing the phone back, the man grinned widely, showing straight white teeth. “That’s it. Marty Calloway.”
Pay dirt.
“Do you happen to know where he lives?”
Bobby shook his head dramatically. “Oh, he ain’t from around these parts. Just visits his niece, I think he said.”
Brantley waited patiently, not wanting to repeat himself. He didn’t give a shit if good ol’ Marty visited the spirit of the elephant out in an empty field. He just needed to know where to look.
“Lemme think,” the guy said, turning and looking at the nearby table. He picked up a statue of a crow, admired it, then put it back. He picked up another statue, this one of a wagon wheel leaning against a wood fence. “This is more your style.”
When Bobby passed the statue his way, Brantley was forced to take it. He smiled, obliging the man. “It’s uh…” In truth, it looked like it had been made by someone who knew what they were doing, but then painted by that person’s four-year-old kid.
“Nine ninety-nine,” Bobby said. “That’s a steal.”
Considering the information he would get out of it, Brantley thought so, too. “I’ll take it.” He saw a matching one and pointed it out. “And that one, too.”
“Oh, it’s lovely.” Bobby picked up the other statue and carried it toward the back.
Brantley followed.
“I’ll get you rung up.”
He was about to remind Bobby that he was looking for someone, but he didn’t need to.
“And I’ll see if I can remember where Marty said his niece lives. I’ve got a map. Give me a minute.”
“Sure thing.” He was starting to think the oblivious ruse was an act to sell the crap he was peddling.
No one said small-town entrepreneurs didn’t know what they were doing.
With another bust, Reese walked out into the brilliant Texas sunshine, Tesha trotting at his side.
“Someone’s gotta know them, Tesha,” he said absently. “That or we’re lookin’ in the wrong damn place.”
Which was a good possibility. Although plenty of their findings pointed directly to this area, Reese knew it could all be smoke and mirrors, all set up to give the illusion of progress. With their luck, this was just another distraction they didn’t need.