Friction

“Well, up until four years ago, I had a very good customer. The individual who knew you so well.”

 

 

The cogs in the wheels of Crawford’s brain clicked into place and suddenly it all made sense. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “This is about Fuentes?”

 

“He was as obsessed with you as you were with him.” He chuckled over Crawford’s evident surprise. “You didn’t know that? Guess you’re not so smart after all. Fuentes was, but he didn’t really have to be all that savvy to spot you. You don’t exactly fit the profile of a feed store clerk.

 

“He marked you as soon as you got to Halcon. You fascinated him. See, my amigo Manuel bought into the image of the Old West Texas Ranger. He loved the myth, the lore. It was a bit disappointing to him that you got around in a pickup truck instead of on horseback.

 

“Anyway, he knew you’d make a move. He just figured you’d have better manners than to come after him at his niece’s party. As it turns out, that was a fatal miscalculation on his part. You weren’t so mannerly after all.”

 

“I cut off the head of the snake.”

 

“Killing the whole damn thing.” His composed recitation came to an abrupt end as he banged the tabletop with his fist, rattling the tin plate. “You robbed me of a good thing.”

 

“This is payback.”

 

“This is only the start of it,” Otterman said. “First, you’ll watch him die,” he said, tipping his head toward Conrad. “Then”—he winked—“I have a few other entertainments planned. I know how much you care for the women in your life.”

 

Crawford’s gut clenched with revulsion and fear, but he kept his head in the game. Either he or Otterman would die soon. If he got lucky and it was Otterman, he wanted to know as much as he could about him and his criminal activities.

 

Redirecting the conversation, he said, “After I blew Fuentes to hell, you signed on with the outfit in Houston.”

 

“To keep closer tabs on you. You moved to Prentiss to be closer to your kid, and I asked the company for a transfer here. Since then, I’ve bided my time.”

 

“Why not just take me out right away? A drive-by. An ambush in my house like Connor. Why the masquerade?”

 

“You underestimate your star power. No ordinary, painless shooting for you. I wanted your death to be spectacular. When I heard about your custody hearing, I cooked up the plan with Pat Connor. Scheduled my appointment with the ADA just so I’d be there to see your bullet-riddled body zipped up in a bag.”

 

“Didn’t happen.”

 

“No. The dumb fuck missed. Got scared. Ran.” The harsh, angry features smoothed out. “But,” he said in a lighter tone, “actually it turned out better. It’s been fun watching you squirm this past week, seeing you scared.”

 

Crawford didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how effectively his revised scheme had worked. “What would you have done if Connor had been caught?”

 

“Well, ideally, he wouldn’t have made it out of the courthouse alive. In a building crawling with cops, I figured somebody would cap him, perhaps even the bailiff he killed. But I wasn’t worried about him being captured. If he’d fingered me, who would have believed that I was involved? You’ve had some experience with that yourself, right? People disbelieving allegations about me?”

 

Crawford didn’t reply to that. “Why Connor?”

 

“You pick a guy who everyone sees, but no one is looking at. He’s coasting through life. You offer him a little excitement in his otherwise dull routine.”

 

“I appreciate the lesson on how to corrupt, but how’d you get him to agree to the assassination attempt?”

 

“He’d made some contacts for me with those coon-asses selling guns. Worked okay for a while, and then Pat helped himself to a piece of my pie. Like I wouldn’t notice. Stupid mistake. But I didn’t kill him, because it’s always helpful to have a plant in the local police department. It’s even better if the plant owes you a favor for sparing his life.” He shrugged. “His usefulness ran out.”

 

“None of this comes as a major revelation,” Crawford said. “Except that you did all this to avenge Fuentes.”

 

“What did you think?”

 

“I thought…” But he stopped there, never wanting to speak aloud what he had feared most: that Beth had somehow been at the heart of Otterman’s revenge.

 

Refocusing on him, Crawford said, “I thought your vengeance had a measure of honor behind it. Twisted valor, maybe, but at least some sense of valor. I thought this was revenge for one of the party guests who got killed in Halcon, or maybe one of the officers who died.”

 

Sandra Brown's books