“We’ve checked out records. Colby’s son Jayden was in a fraternity at school, and then Chase was accepted into the same one. But they left several months ago—left the fraternity after the first year, choosing to live on their own in an apartment.”
“Jayden is in premed, from what I understand—about to graduate with his bachelor’s degree. Chase just started—he’s a freshman,” Hunter said.
“That is correct. We also discovered Morrison’s two sons—about the same ages—were also members of the same fraternity. And left the fraternity house to live in an apartment just about the same time.”
“So, you think—”
“I don’t think anything. I’m just giving you the information.”
Hunter hesitated. “Sir, can you get Sheila to research something? The general perception out in the world is Ethan Morrison’s father was a dirt-poor farmer who worked to the bone to start the empire Ethan turned into billion-dollar businesses. I think we need to know more about his father.”
“The man is dead, but we’ll do the research that we can.”
“Ethan Morrison is a comparatively young man for his riches, right?”
“Forty-four,” Garza told him. “Had children young, divorced the first wife. Who was going to go to court against him, but she was never able to do so—she passed away from natural causes.”
“How convenient for Morrison.”
“It was an aneurysm.”
“Right. I’d like to know about the medical examiner who had the case.”
“It was almost twenty years ago.”
“Hell, I would dig her up.”
“If you did and it was proved she was murdered, you’d never pin it on Morrison—not this late in the game.”
“People do have an alarming tendency to die around him.”
“We’re doing what we can.”
“I know. Please, this may be important. Ask Sheila to use her most amazing digging talents and see what she can come up with.”
“I will. Happy to follow any lead you throw at us.” He paused. “I know you’re the right man for this, Hunter. But make sure you don’t let your past sidetrack you.”
“Yes, sir. The Morrison sons’ names, by the way?”
“Ezekiel, known as Zeke, and Aaron.”
“Biblical.”
“Yes. Take care. Should it become necessary, I can send more agents.”
“And when we’re ready, I will call on them,” Hunter promised.
Garza was quiet for a minute. “You know what it’s like, when we reach the point and have witnesses or facts to move on. You’re a hell of an agent, Hunter, but you know damn well you’re going to need help. As in maybe a SWAT team.”
“Yes, of course. But we don’t really have anything yet. I know there’s a cult at work here, but I can’t say who is involved, though I have a suspicion. And whoever is the head man, he has six or more trusted helpers. The men who came down in the van, for one, bringing the victims to be killed in the south. Right now we’re trying to check out the friendly folk of Maclamara. We’re at a bar on the northern edge of the town—”
“I know where you are. We’re tracking your phone.”
“Good.”
“Keep me apprised of every situation.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh! One more thing,” Garza said before Hunter could ring off. “Special Agent Roger Dawson, retired, called in. He heard about the murders and assumed you were on the case. He says he may be retired, but he’s available if you want to ask him questions about the past, about anyone concerned.”
“That’s great—Dawson was my hero. I’m always happy to talk to him. He helped me forget the past. Now maybe he can help me remember when it might be important.”
Hunter ended the call and stood, thoughtful for a moment.
Dawson had been his hero, the reason he’d become an FBI agent, and the reason he’d been so determined to make his life count.
He could still remember standing in the clearing on the California hillside.
Hunter hadn’t been involved with any of the trial; he’d been a six-year-old. But he had known Brother Colin died in the gunfight. Brother Anthony had gone to prison and died there, as had several others. But the man known as Brother Darryl had disappeared.
And Hunter could remember Special Agent Dawson talking to his parents, warning them they couldn’t go back—only forward, only under witness protection and only as their new identities.
Because revenge was something that could possess a man.
17
Through the relative gloom of the bar, Hunter could see Amy was seated on a stool. A tall man in his early thirties with neck-length, dark, curly hair and light eyes was leaning against the bar at her side.
Flirting, obviously.
Amy was laughing at his words.
The man was wearing black jeans and a black T-shirt with a motorcycle insignia.
Just a biker—or was he more?
Hunter walked casually up to the bar to join her. She turned, her smile still in place. “Hunter! There you are. I’d like you meet Phin Harrison. He lives just about a mile or so down. He has a motorcycle repair shop.”
“How’s it going?” Hunter said, offering the man his hand.
“Uh, hey,” the man said, shaking hands with Hunter, studying him, assessing him.
Phin appeared to be perplexed; apparently, he had thought Amy was alone.
“Motorcycle repair, eh?” Hunter said.
“You have a bike?” Phin asked.
“No, I’ve had bikes and I’ve been thinking about getting one again. I’m weighing the pros and cons of the different ones on the market now.”
“Well, come by the shop. I can show you a few.”
“People here are so nice, Hunter!” Amy said, enthused. “They’re having a big barbecue at their city park, sounds really cool. Phin invited us.”
“Really? That is nice,” Hunter said. “But is it like the whole town is invited? And, of course, if we’re coming, we’d need to bring something—”
“We do it every few weeks,” Phin said. “And we never ask newcomers to bring anything. People just get together. They make plans with each other sometimes, things they’re going to do together between barbecues. Oh, we have some preaching, too, but we have it on a Sunday and we’re kind of a God-fearing place here, so we’re all happy to have our church out in the park. You’re not against church, are you?” Phin asked them.