Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 131387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131387 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
“Okay.”
“And by ‘them loading up,’ I mean the men stood around shooting the breeze while the women loaded up. Assholes didn’t even back the trucks closer to the houses so the women didn’t have to lug their shit all the way to the truck port.”
Harry was the same type of man Hutch was, so the irritation in his tone was strong when he said, “Not surprised.”
“Thing is, if you look at those pictures, I caught some interesting snaps.” He didn’t make him ask for it. “Lars Enstrom’s wife, or woman, or whatever they have, is either neck deep in Stockholm syndrome, she’s very at one with the mission or she’s in on whatever they’re up to. For supposedly devout folks, the way they buried their tongues in each other’s mouths, and he groped her ass over her ugly dress, was more than a little odd.”
“No shit?”
“None at all. And that isn’t it. The one you say is called Heath Burress. Their resident attorney?”
Another thing taking his time?
Harry and Rus were keeping him abreast of what they were learning.
“Yeah,” Harry said.
“They were rolling out to go to the market, some woman comes rushing out of a house, flags down the truck Burress is driving. He stops, rolls down the window, they have a chat, she’s all smiles. And then she gets up on the footwell to lean in to lay one on him before she let him go.”
“Are you saying you think we’re on the wrong track and the women are actually into this shit?” Harry asked.
“No, because none of the other women behave like that. They don’t even lift their heads enough for me to get a full-face shot of them. Got plenty of full-face shots of Enstrom and Burress’s women, though.”
“Have you seen them before?”
“Nope.”
“Any other differences? In clothes? Hair?”
Harry was good.
“Same dresses, but Enstrom’s wife had her hair up in one of those messy knots women wear. The kind that looks good, not like they’re about to climb into a covered wagon. Burress’s woman, though, had her hair down.”
“So they either have some kind of elevated standing, or they’ve earned some kind of reward.”
“Or they’re in on whatever those guys have going on there. Just to say, when I see the women, they’re working, Harry. They got shit to do and places to be. Conceivably, in all the time I spent there watching, not seeing those two women—”
“Means they maybe have their feet up and they’re chilling,” Harry deduced.
“Maybe. But what isn’t a maybe is that those two women have a completely different affect than the other seven I’ve seen on that compound.”
“Right. We’ll get to work on seeing if we can identify them. You got more?”
“That’s it.”
“Each little bit is a piece of the puzzle,” Harry told him. “The picture will eventually get clearer. Thanks, Hutch.”
The length of time it was taking this puzzle to form, and knowing that kind of shit was his job, the man had to have the patience of a saint.
“No problem, Harry. Congratulations again, and my love to Lillian.”
“Thanks again, and I’ll tell her. Later.”
“Later.”
Some time after that, Hutch had set up his dummy and was doing “leave it” and “guard” drills with Blitz when his phone rang again.
He pulled it out, looked at the screen and released a long breath.
Because his dad would be disappointed in him if he ignored it was the only reason he took the call.
“Hey, Aunt Elaine.”
“Ranger, how are you?”
He clenched his teeth.
Only two people his entire life called him that stupid-ass name.
His mother and his Aunt Elaine.
Strike that.
His mother was now dead.
So it was only his Aunt Elaine.
“Things are good,” he replied. “You?”
“I’m preparing for the anniversary.”
He knew this was coming.
What he didn’t know was why the woman had to commemorate her sister’s death every damn year.
Hutch knew the widows of dead husbands who did that, and he understood it. Especially if the man left behind a family. That was love. That was respect. That was remembrance. And that was a way to keep him alive in their hearts.
His aunt insisting he fly home to New Hampshire so they could have some kind of special dinner to honor that woman, especially when she was well aware of what kind of woman his mother was, what she put Hutch through, what she put his dad through, was lunacy.
“Hope it brings you some peace,” he said.
“Ranger, Lisa was your mother.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Her death was a tragedy.”
“She died of cancer, Aunt Elaine. And it took her a long time to do it.”
He could tell his Aunt Elaine wasn’t a fan of how he worded that, but she let it go and stated, “In her fifties. That’s a tragedy.”
“Listen—” he began.
But she cut him off. “She loved you, Ranger. She adored you. And this is how you dishonor her?”
“I was at her bedside, holding her hand when she died,” he gritted, maybe because he was tired, maybe because he was just so fucking done with this shit. “And we both know she didn’t deserve that.”