Chapter 10
A ringing telephone rescued D Wayne Cutter from fitful dreams. It was still dark, but he had no idea what time it was.
The soulful call of a whippoorwill carried in through the bedroom window.
Lucy snored softly beside him, covered up in a pile of quilts.
He rolled over with a low groan and looked at his watch.
Ten past five. He would’ve gotten up in twenty minutes anyway.
The phone rang again. Cutter stumbled down the hall to the kitchen.
He leaned against the fridge and grabbed the receiver off the wall.
“Cutter residence,” he mumbled, dry-mouthed.
“Deputy Cutler?” a tentative voice said.
Cutter wiped a hand over his stubbled face.
“This is Deputy Cutter.”
“Right, Cutter. Sorry about that, hon,” the voice on the other end of the line said. “Sandra Bedford here. I’m the Intensive Care charge nurse at the hospital. You wanted a call when Mr. Foster was awake.”
Cutter thanked her and hung up. Hand still on the receiver, he stood and beat his forehead softly against the wall, blinking himself fully awake.
Lucy’s soft chuckle came from the shadows behind him. “That’s a good way to give yourself drain bamage.”
“Go back to bed, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m sorry to wake you so early.”
She ignored him and switched on the light above the stove. “Was that the hospital?”
“Yep,” Cutter said. “Sounds like Foster’s ready to talk.”
“That’s a blessing,” she said. “Do you have time for some eggs?”
“I wish,” Cutter said. His wife made the best creamy scrambled eggs. “Afraid I need to get on the road.”
Always cold lately, Lucy pulled her robe tight around her neck and then kissed him on the cheek. “Go on and get ready. The least I can do is make you some coffee.”
He kissed her again and then turned to go shower.
“Hang on,” she said. “I assume you plan to let Lafayette Johnson know you’re heading in early—so he can learn how you do things during this interview.”
“I …”
“You’re an example to that young man, D Wayne,” she said. “One way or another. You can be a good example and let him know what you’re up to this morning, or you can teach him it’s perfectly okay to sneak around and question folks behind a partner’s back.”
“He’s not my partner,” Cutter said.
As sick as she was, Lucy Peterson Cutter was still in possession of a chiding look that could cut tempered steel.
Cutter held up both hands in surrender, then walked back to the phone and snatched the receiver off the wall. It was no use. He’d never stood a chance with this woman—and that was just fine with him.
Cutter turned off Santa Fe Drive into the Weatherford Hospital parking lot just ahead of Lafayette Johnson. The younger deputy bailed out of his car bouncing like he was already on his third cup of coffee.
Vigor was definitely wasted on the young.
Instead of his normal brown-and-tan Parker County patrol uniform, Johnson was dressed as a plainclothes investigator like Cutter—Wranglers and a starched white pearl snap—a little big, like he was wearing his daddy’s shirt.
Somehow in the few hours since Cutter had last seen him, he’d found an intricately tooled leather Ranger rig with a slightly wider gun belt that rode just below the matching belt that held up his slacks.
Instead of black patrol boots, he wore a pair of full-quill ostrich Tony Lamas the color of peanut brittle to match his gun belt.
“You’re looking awfully sharp this morning,” Cutter said. “You have a date after work?”
“No,” Johnson said. “I … er … I thought … Bud said I’d be shadowing you, so I figured I should … you know, look the part.”
“I don’t care what you wear. Just clear it with the chief.” Cutter spoke over his shoulder as he strode through the automatic door.
“I hope this guy gives us something,” Johnson said, hustling to keep up. “I’d sure like to be the ones to catch these bastards before they run far.”
Cutter stopped in his tracks. “Those jokers are long gone,” he said. “Our job is to identify them and then figure out where they went.”
Johnson gave a slow nod. “I suppose you’re right.
Cutter glanced down at the kid’s Tony Lamas, then turned for the hospital door. “You might want to keep in mind, we’ll be wading through a lot of bullshit during this investigation—figurative and literal. It’d be a shame to wreck those fancy boots.”
Lucy had spent so much time in hospitals and clinics these past few months that the smell of the antiseptic soap made Cutter gag as soon as he walked through the door. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to focus.
Robert Foster’s wife came out of his room and held up an open hand to stop them as they approached.
Her red hair fell haphazardly from a loose bun.
The front of her white T-shirt was stained with what Cutter presumed to be coffee.
He knew from the file that her name was Trina, a local girl who’d grown up northwest of Weatherford near the small community of Peaster.
It was understandable that she’d be haggard after standing vigil all night over her badly wounded husband, not knowing if he’d even pull through.
She’d need to be interviewed at some point, but that could wait—for now.
Cutter tipped his hat, introducing himself and Johnson.
“It sounds like the operation went well,” Johnson said, filling the vacuum of silence Cutter had wanted to leave open.
Trina Foster folded her arms, hugging herself. “The doctors aren’t telling me everything. I can feel it.” Her voice was hoarse from tears and fatigue.
“Is he awake?” Cutter asked.
She ignored the question. “Look,” she said. “I want you to catch the men who did this to him. I truly do, but please, please, please take it easy on Rob. He’s so weak.”
Cutter promised to be quick. Mrs. Foster went down the hallway to look for more coffee.
Robert Foster’s eyes were closed when they entered the room.
Not shut like he was asleep, but clenched, like a child who wanted to avoid the monsters in his closet.
Death came for everyone, but it had a particular sensitivity toward fear.
In Cutter’s experience, the more frightened you were, the faster Death sniffed out your hiding spot.
And Foster was terrified.
His eyes flicked open at the sound of their footsteps. The heart monitor shot from eighty-one to over a hundred in an instant. He tried to sit up in bed, but the tubes and wires connected to his body kept him tethered in place.
Cutter pulled a wooden chair closer so they could talk at eye level. Johnson stood against the wall.
Foster licked his lips. “I guess you want a description of the bastards,” he said, breathless, but getting down to business.
“It would help,” Cutter said.
“I’m not gonna be much good to you,” Foster said. “They were wearing masks.” He fell quiet, glancing back and forth between the two deputies.
Johnson moved away from the wall a hair, like he was about to say something. Cutter caught his eye just in time to shut him down. They sat in silence again for almost a full minute with nothing but the blip of the heart monitor and Foster’s labored breathing.
“One of them was a giant,” Foster finally said. “Big, no-neck son of a bitch. Like a pro wrestler or something.”
Cutter looked up from his notepad but said nothing.
Foster went on. “There was another guy. Smaller, with stringy hair poking out from under his ski mask.” He stopped to catch his breath, then said, “I think they both shot me. Sorry … I just can’t really remember details.”
“You’re doing fine,” Cutter said.
“They had a Buick,” he said. “Brown or tan, I think. I only remember because it had one of those super-long hoods, you know. And a blue Crown Victoria.” A tear ran down his cheek. “We begged Watts not to stop.” He gave a forlorn sigh, more of a shuddering whimper. “I think he was in on it.”
Now Cutter spoke. “And they shot him?”
Foster’s head snapped around, wide-eyed. “Yes,” he said, wincing at the sudden movement. “They shot him in the chest with a shotgun. I didn’t see which one. Like I said, I’m not going to be much help.” He feigned a coughing fit, which turned into a real one. “Sorry … I’m just … tired.”
“Five million dollars,” Cutter said. “Is it common for you to carry loads worth that much?”
“We haul even more than that sometimes,” Foster said. “Especially if we’re carrying gold. Most people don’t know how heavy that stuff is. Harder to run off with than you’d think.”
“Okay, then.” Cutter glanced at Johnson. “You have some questions?”
Caught by surprise, Johnson shook his head. “I can’t think of anything.”
Cutter stood and slid the chair to its original position against the wall. He started for the door but then turned back to Foster, trying not to sound too much like Columbo.
“So, you have thought about it,” he said. “Stealing a load, I mean.”
“Stealing?” Foster said, incredulous. “No. Of course not.”
Cutter looked at the man for a good twenty seconds watching, listening.
When Foster offered no more information, Cutter pulled a business card from the breast pocket of his shirt and set it on the rolling tray beside the plastic water pitcher.
“We’ll get out of your hair, but this is my office number.
Give me a shout if you have any further questions. ”
“Sorry,” Foster whispered. “You know, I just didn’t see much.”
“Not to worry,” Cutter said. “You’ve helped out more than you know.”