the canyons and flat farmlands the Breaks. The ground was too uneven to farm more than small plots, too barren to ranch in most spots. But deer and wild sheep lived there along with wild pigs and turkey. And, Thatcher decided, every crazy person in Texas who didn’t want to be bothered. Outlaws had once claimed the place, but now it was populated by deadbeats, old hippies and druggies. If the sheriff even knocked on trailer and cabin doors in his neighborhood he’d need a bus to bring in the wanted.
Thatcher watched the sheriff making notes as he finished his burger. Rain pounded the tin porch beyond the office windows, making a tapping sound that was almost musical.
He saw the sheriff open a letter, then smile. It couldn’t have had much written on the one sheet of paper because after a few seconds Brigman folded it up, unlocked his bottom drawer and shoved the letter inside.
Thatcher decided it must be some kind of love note because if it had been a death threat then Brigman wouldn’t have smiled. Only who’d write a man like him a love note?
The sheriff was single and would probably be considered good-looking in a boring, law-abiding kind of way, but Thatcher still didn’t think the note was a love letter. Sheriffs and teachers in a little town were like the royal family. Everyone kept up with them. So maybe the note was a coupon or something.
Brigman glanced up as if he just remembered Thatcher was there. “Your mother will be worried about you. Wish she had a phone.”
Thatcher nodded, but he knew she wouldn’t be worried. His ma had a rule. The minute the first raindrop fell, she started drinking. When he got home, she’d either be passed out or gone. One of her boyfriends worked road construction, so any time it rained was party time for him.
While the sheriff made a few more calls, Thatcher unwrapped the second double-meat, double-cheese burger. After all, greasy hamburgers were no good cold. He’d be doing the sheriff a favor by eating it while it was still warm.
About the time he swallowed the last bite, the main door in the lobby flew open. Thatcher leaned back in his chair far enough to see a man and three kids rushing in past Pearly’s desk.
Brigman stood and stepped out of his office, but Thatcher just kept leaning back, sipping his Coke and watching.
“Sheriff,” the man said, his voice shaking from cold or fright, Thatcher couldn’t tell which. “We’re here to report a murder.”
The three kids, all wet, nodded. One was a boy about eight or ten, the other two were girls, one close to Thatcher’s age.
“Bring the blankets from behind my desk,” the sheriff yelled toward his office.
Thatcher looked around as if Brigman might be ordering someone else into action, but no such luck. He let the front legs of his chair hit the hardwood floor and followed orders.
By the time he got the blankets and made it to the lobby, the man was rattling off a story about how he and his kids were walking the canyon at sunset and came across a body wrapped in what looked like old burlap feed bags.
Thatcher grew wide-eyed when Brigman glanced at him. “Don’t look at me,” he said in a voice so high Thatcher barely recognized his own words. “I’m just collecting cow chips. I didn’t kill nobody.”
The sheriff rolled his eyes. “Pass out the blankets, kid.”
While the man kept talking, Thatcher handed every dripping visitor a blanket. The last one, he opened up and put over the girl who was probably the oldest. She was so wet he could see the outline of her bra.
He tried his best not to look, but failed miserably. Her breasts might be small, but she was definitely old enough to fill out a bra.
“Thank you,” she said when the blanket and his arm went around her.
“You’re welcome,” he answered as he raised his gaze to the most beautiful green eyes he’d ever seen.
Until that moment, if you’d asked Thatcher Jones if he liked girls, he would have sworn he never would as long as he lived. When you’re the poorest and dumbest kid in school, no one has anything nice to say to you and most girls don’t even look your direction. During grade school he’d been kicked out several times for fighting, but now, since he was no longer in grade school, he’d decided to ignore everyone and skip as many classes as possible.
But this girl just kept smiling at him like nothing was wrong with him.
He didn’t want to move away. “Did you see the body?” he whispered.
She shook her head. “I saw the sack. It had brown spots on it. Blood, I think. My dad didn’t let us get too close.”
Thatcher thought of all the blood he’d seen in his life. He’d killed animals for food since he was six or seven. He’d washed his mother up a few times when one of her “friends” beat her. He’d watched his own blood pour out with every heartbeat once when he’d tumbled out of a tree, but none of that mattered right now.
“I’m sorry you had to see such a thing,” he whispered to the green-eyed girl.
“He was murdered,” she said so low only he could have heard her.
“How do you know? He could have committed suicide. Folks have done that before, or died in accidents down there in the canyon.”
Her eyes swam in tears. “Do people who die from suicide or accident stuff themselves into sacks?”
Thatcher nodded. “Good point.”
Then the strangest thing happened. Right in the middle of the sheriff calling in backup and Pearly coming in to take statements, and the storm pounding so hard against the north windows that he feared they’d break...right in the middle of it all, the girl reached out and held his hand.
As if she needed him.
As if in all the chaos he was her rock.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, Thatcher stood in the drizzle and watched the sheriff working the crime scene. He’d been told, since he’d insisted on coming along, that he had to hold a big light down the trail toward where they found the body. Nothing else. Just hold the light, as though he was nothing more than a lamppost.
The county coroner had come in from Lubbock County to pronounce the dead guy dead. Which Thatcher thought was a bit of overkill. He stood thirty feet away and he could tell the guy was dead.
“I’m going to list the cause of death as undetermined,” the coroner shouted loud enough for Thatcher to hear him.
He thought of yelling down that the huge dent in the burlapped man’s head should be a pretty good hint as to how he died. What was left of his face looked more like the Elephant Man than anyone Thatcher had ever seen.
“Get back in the cruiser,” Brigman yelled as he started up the path.
“Yes, sir,” Thatcher answered without moving. This was far too interesting to crawl back into the car. He wasn’t sure he could do the sheriff’s job, but he decided to check into becoming a coroner. It didn’t look that hard.
As men lifted the body and began the slow journey back up the canyon, Thatcher watched and tried to figure out why someone would leave a body in Ransom Canyon. Wouldn’t any old bar ditch do?
A beefy deputy from Lubbock County stepped up behind him and flashed a beam of light in his face. “What you doing here, kid?”
Thatcher smiled. “I was called in to help with the investigation. What are you doing here, deputy?”
“You’re Thatcher Jones.” The lawman said his name as if he was swearing. “You got anything to do with this?”
“Nope. How about you, Officer Weathers?” Thatcher made a habit of always remembering any lawman he met. When he’d seen the tall deputy once in Brigman’s office, Weathers had been wrestling two drunks and hadn’t had time for an introduction.
About