The Bequest (33 page)

Chad had not
covered his face as thickly as he should have. Sky
peeked through the leaves and, when he opened his eyes again, he had a
clear view with one eye of the man who sat on the tree trunk. Perspiration
had plastered his shirt to his chest, but his heavily groomed hair remained
in place, notwithstanding the rivulets of sweat that coursed down his
temples.

Chad could see him, but could he see Chad? That was the question.
Chad was tempted to brush a few more leaves over his face, but he knew
that moving, with the accompanying rustle of dried leaves, was the
absolute worst thing to do right now. He had to lie perfectly still and hope
that his eye, if that’s all that was exposed, would simply be invisible
against the bed of leaves.

From a distance, a gunshot split the stillness, followed a brief second
later by a flurry of shots. Then a second shot like the first, followed by
silence again. Chad recognized the sound of the rifle; Peggy had taken the
first and last shots, spurring and then ending the intervening gunfire. He
listened hard for any answering shots after Peggy’s second. Nothing but
silence. That meant that the gunmen had been rendered incapable of
returning fire.

The man on the tree jumped to his feet at the sound. He, too,
seemed to be listening, anticipating even. At the ensuing silence, he
frowned, his countenance visibly darkening. He pulled his cell phone from
his pocket, held it high, and stared at it, as if willing a connection. He
turned slowly in a complete circle, phone held aloft. Chad knew his
endeavor was doomed to failure. If ever you wanted to retreat to the good
old days of the non-existence of technology, ninety percent of this ranch in
Bandera County, Texas, was just the place to be.

The man punched buttons on the phone, the ineffectual
beeps
and
boops
infuriating him.
“Goddamnit!” he said as he flung the phone to the ground—right on
top of Chad’s chest. It skittered slightly, then slid under the leaves and
came to rest at Chad’s throat.
Chad held his breath. Could the man tell the difference in sound
from throwing a cell phone into a pile of leaves as opposed to hitting
something solid? He hoped not. And God forbid that he should seek to
retrieve it.
The man looked north, as if trying to see what had transpired where
the shots had been fired. He stood statue-still for a good five seconds then
cocked his head, as if he had heard something.
Or as if there had been a delayed reaction in his brain to something
that happened earlier. Five seconds earlier.
He looked at the pile of leaves where he had thrown his phone. A
blank
expression
replaced
the
frown.
He
took
a
step toward the
depression and looked down. At the edge, he flexed his knees slightly,
bent, and stared. It seemed as if he was staring directly into Chad’s eye.
He squinted, leaned closer.
Chad willed himself not to blink, hoping the darkness of his eye was
obscured by the leaves. Or, if worse came to worst, an unblinking eye
might convince the man that a dead animal lay beneath the leaves.
The man dropped to one knee and reached forward. Chad watched in
horror as the hand reached the leaves on his chest, then disappeared
beneath the surface, feeling for the cell phone. Fingers touched Chad’s
shirt.
“What the hell?” The man’s eyes widened, his brows lifting damn
near to his hair-line. He raised his gunhand and pointed the weapon
directly at Chad—
Who grabbed the hand touching his chest and yanked with all the
strength he had remaining in his one good arm. It was enough to pull the
man off-balance and into the depression, directly on top of Chad. The gun
went off, and Chad felt a sting of pain along the side of his head, then a
deafening
thud
as the bullet embedded itself in the earth beneath him.
His left arm useless, Chad struggled to force the man’s body off to
the other side, and then he scrambled to his knees. He reached into the
morass of leaves while the other man got to his feet. Chad homed in
almost instantly on the small saw Peggy had left with him. His vision
blurred as he straightened and tried to focus on his enemy. It was more
than just dizziness and pain that obscured the view. Blood gushed from his
scalp, pouring into his left eye. Between that and the wound in his
shoulder, the left side of his body was virtually worthless.
The man pointed his gun at Chad, while Chad struggled to raise the
saw, wielding it like a sword.
“Goddamn, veterinarian, you think that’s a match for a gun?” Bozarth
asked. He laughed. “I think you’ve been spending too much time with
animals.”
“I’ll take animals any day over the likes of you.”
The excitement of the moment must have frayed the man’s thoughts.
He adopted the same pose he had earlier, when thinking about the sound
of the cell phone hitting Chad’s chest. Then he asked the question that
Chad knew was coming.
“If you’re here, who are my men chasing? Teri Squire?”
Chad smiled.
“I don’t know what you’re so happy about, veterinarian,” Bozarth
said. “Did you hear those gunshots?”
“I did.” Chad’s smile broadened.
“Then what the hell are you so happy about?”
“You don’t spend much time around guns, do you?”
“I leave that for others.”
“It’s a shame. If you did, you’d know that the first and last shots came
from a rifle.”
The import of the words hit Bozarth like a punch in the face.
“Bullshit.”
“Two shots, two men. The next bullet will be for you.”
“Again, bullshit. She’s an actress, for God’s sake.”
“She’s a ranch girl. She’s been hunting in these woods around here
since she was a little girl. And she’s been shooting competitively since she
was ten. She won that rifle at the county fair when she was fifteen. She’s
the best—”
A shot rang out. Bozarth spun in a half-circle and dropped to his
knees. The gun flew from his hand and landed a few yards away. Blood
painted a broad swatch down his wilted white shirt, starting just above his
right breast.
“—shot in Bandera County.”
Bozarth slumped to his side and pitched down the slope from the
ridgeline.
He
flipped head over
heels then
sprawled onto
his side,
continuing to roll until he came to rest against the dead deer.
Chad
looked back along
the
ridgeline.
Peggy
ran toward him,
carrying the rifle in front of her with both hands.
Blackness washed over him, and he toppled back into the depression
of leaves.

Teri knelt beside Chad and felt for his pulse. Weak, thready, but there.
She crawled to the edge of the ridge and peered down, careful not to
show too much of herself. She knew she had shot Bozarth, but she didn’t
know if the shot had been fatal or even disabling. Was he still armed? Was
he waiting for her down there? She had to make sure.
It was hard to see in the dark, but all she could make out down below
was the deer.
She crawled south along the ridgeline, endeavoring to get a better
line of sight around the cedars on the slope. Still nothing. How long had it
been? Surely no more a minute from the shot until she reached Chad,
checked his pulse, and then looked down the hill. He couldn’t have gotten
far. But what if she had missed him? What if this was just a trick, designed
to lure her closer and get her to drop her guard.
No, that was impossible. She didn’t miss. She
didn’t
miss. She knew,
because she never missed.
She backed up until she was beside Chad again. He was still out, but
breathing. She slid into the depression beside him.
And waited for Bozarth’s next move.

Nichols and Stillman
followed in their rental car as Bandera
County Sheriff Waggoner led them in his squad car along the state
highway that bordered Chad Palmer’s ranch. The speed limit signs said
“65,” but Stillman viewed that as more of a dare than limit. No way you
could hit that speed, much less maintain it, on this road that serpentined
its way through rough, craggy hills on both sides, with constant elevation
rises and drops. A blue haze hung over the valleys, adding to the 3D effect
as you looked in the distance.

Waggoner spoke on his cell phone. Nichols, in the passenger seat,
held his phone between his partner and himself, the speaker on.
“This land has been in Chad’s family for a hundred years. They used
to run cattle and horses on it. His folks died in a car wreck about ten years
ago and left it to him. He still runs horses, but not so much cattle
anymore.”
“How do you do any kind of ranching in these hills?” Stillman asked.
“We’re about to level out and hit the meadows and pastures,”
Waggoner said. “Most of the hills are just for show. The ranching takes
place in the valley up ahead.”
“How many acres?”
“I don’t know exactly. Five thousand, maybe. Main gate’s up ahead.”
Sure enough, they descended a hill and reached a broad expanse of
flat land, an anomaly in the area. Horses roamed a pasture on one side of
the road, while the other was just an open meadow.
“Beautiful,” Stillman said.
The main entry consisted of white rock pillars on either side, with a
wrought iron archway that proclaimed “Palmer Acres.” The gate was
open, so the sheriff slowed and entered, followed by the detectives.
“Don’t be surprised if you lose cell service in here. It’s spotty, at
best.”
“That gate always open?” Stillman asked.
“Chad generally keeps it that way during the day. In case anyone
needs to bring an animal to see him.”
“So this is where his vet office is?”
“Most large animal vets are pretty much just visiting doctors, so not
much need for an office. But Chad takes on all comers. Dogs, cats,
squirrels—”
“Squirrels?” Nichols asked.
“More than once, someone hit a squirrel crossing the road, but didn’t
kill it, so the driver or someone coming along later picked it up and took it
to Chad.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. Chad’s an animal lover, and everyone—”
Waggoner cut out in mid-sentence. Nichols pocketed the phone.
“Guess we’re out of service.”
They rode silently for just over another mile before Waggoner
slammed on his brakes, threw open his door and got out. Nichols pulled
up and stopped behind him, and he and Stillman joined Waggoner by the
fenceline. They saw instantly what had grabbed his attention: a body, with
blood covering his throat, splatters on his face.
All three men pulled guns from holsters as Waggoner led the way
through
an opening in
the
fence. “Been some traffic through here
recently,” he said. “Tire tracks look fresh.”
He pointed across the meadow toward three pick-up trucks, barely
visible in the shadows next to the trees about a half a football field away
that marked the beginning of dense woods. “That’s Chad’s truck. Don’t
know who the others belong to.”
They reached the body. Waggoner checked for a pulse then shook his
head.
“You know him?” Stillman asked.
“Never seen him before.”
The report of a gunshot echoed across the valley. The two CHP
detectives instinctively ducked, but Waggoner remained standing.
“Could just be hunters,” Waggoner said. “Gunfire’s not uncommon
out here.”
“And could be whoever’s in those other two trucks,” Stillman said.
Waggoner nodded. “I’ll call for back-up.”
He hustled back to his vehicle, spoke into the radio, then motioned
for the detectives to follow. They retreated to their rental, got in, and
followed Waggoner as he slowly drove across the meadow to the three
trucks. A quick once-over of the newer model vehicle and the one next to
it revealed nothing interesting, but Chad Palmer’s truck was a different
story.
“That’s a lot of blood,” Stillman said.
“I just hope it’s not Chad’s,” Waggoner said.
“I think we better find out,” Nichols said.
Waggoner nodded. The radio chirped in his car. He slid into the
front seat, spoke briefly, and then returned. “Back-up’s on the way. And
Chad’s not answering his landline at the house.”
“Let’s move out,” Stillman said. He led the way into the trees.

Bozarth ran through the woods as if his life depended on it. And given that
a dead-eye Texas bitch with a rifle, who had already put one bullet in him,
was after him, there was a good chance it did. The whole thing was
unraveling faster than he dreamed possible. With the screenwriter gone—
both the real one and the fake one, whichever was which—and then the
agents gone, the hype over
The Precipice
was building to a crescendo, and
he and his investors stood to make their entire investment back in the first
weekend. The only nagging loose end was Teri Squire. It appeared that
she might have a conscience, and consciences were troubling, especially
when there were skeletons to keep in closets, secrets to keep buried, and
money to keep untraceable.

Add to that the additional hype that might accompany her death or
disappearance—who knew
how
many box office
dollars might be
attributable to folks jumping on the “See Teri Squire’s last movie”
bandwagon?—and the obscure contractual provision that would make
him, as the sole survivor of the production team, the big winner of the
profits, and she had to go. It was simple: Profits divided by three were less
than profits divided by two, which were less than undivided profits. All
that had to happen was for Teri Squire to simply disappear. She didn’t
even have to die, at least as far as the world was concerned; just disappear.