Page 24

Frank Doyle was truly taken back by the latest turn in their conversation.

“Now, hold on a minute,” Frank said. “We’re talking about Bob Anderson here. The man’s been here longer than most, but he’s not any part of the land-baron families we’ve been talking about.”

He watched Jenna consider his words.

“I know it’s just a hunch,” she admitted. “But we can’t afford to overlook any possibilities at this point.”

“Better safe than sorry, right?” Jake added.

A sigh escaped Frank, and he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, feeling the familiar scratch of stubble against his palm. “Alright,” he conceded, the words coming out slowly. “But come to think of it, Bob doesn’t have a phone. The only way to reach him is in person. Since it’s getting late and we’re about ready to call it a day, anyhow, we could swing by his place to check in on him.”

“Let’s do that,” Jenna agreed.

With Agnes and Jasper following, they made their way back to the living room, the mustiness of old books and documents lingering in the air. Frank placed a weathered hand on Jasper’s shoulder, feeling the frailty of the man under his touch.

“You’ve been a big help, old friend,” he murmured. Jasper’s face shifted, lined with confusion, before settling into a smile tinged with pride.

“Thank you, both of you,” Jenna added to Jasper and Agnes.

The trio stepped out into the night. Mid-July in Genesius County usually meant sweltering days followed by slightly less sweltering nights, but tonight there was a reprieve. The air was actually a little cooler than usual.

Frank climbed into the passenger seat of Jenna’s vehicle. Jenna slipped behind the wheel with Jake taking up the rear. As the patrol car’s headlights carved a tunnel through the encroaching darkness, Frank heard Jake put through calls on his cell phone to warn the mayor’s security team to double their guard until further notice. Jake then called for a police squad car to watch her house.

“Take a right at that next road,” Frank murmured, pointing with a weathered finger to a small dirt track veering off from the main highway. “Bob’s place is just up that way.”

Jenna turned the wheel, guiding them onto the narrow path, and the car lurched through the sudden change from smooth asphalt to rugged dirt. The air was thick with the scent of earth and growing things, a smell Frank had known all his life.

Ahead, as they continued their rattle along the track, Bob Anderson’s farm emerged like a sketch from the past—a modest little house surrounded by the bones of the earth and the sinew of meager fields.

“Doesn’t look like much,” Jake commented from the backseat.

“Never did,” Frank replied. “But Bob always made do.” His voice held a trace of respect for the man who’d carved a life from the stubborn soil with little complaint.

As the vehicle approached, a porch light flickered on.

“Looks like Bob’s home,” Frank announced.

When Jenna parked the cruiser, Frank got out and led them toward that light, an assurance in his stride bred from decades of walking these lands and knowing their people. “Stay close,” he instructed without looking back. “I’ll do the talking.” Bob knew him best, after all.

At the door, Frank raised his hand, knuckles knocking firmly but respectfully against the old wood of Bob Anderson’s door. The raps sounded out, a staccato that sliced through the silence hanging over the farmstead.

Within moments, there was life behind the barrier—a shuffling, a muted thud of boots on floorboards, the weary sigh of hinges long due for oiling. The door swung inward slightly, then opened wide, revealing Bob Anderson in the flesh. His face bore the map of hard years, lines like dry creek beds crossed his weathered skin. The silver bristles of his stubble caught stray glints of light, and his posture spoke of a man who stood alone against time and elements. Eyes, sharp as flint and framed by crow’s feet, narrowed as they checked out the people who stood on his porch.

“Evening, Bob,” Frank greeted him, warmth in his voice. “Hope we’re not disturbing you.”

“Frank Doyle,” Bob replied. “And you two must be Sheriff Graves and Deputy Hawkins.” He leaned against the door frame. “What brings you all out here?”

Frank cleared his throat. “Bob, there’ve been a couple of murders,” he said, each word measured and deliberate. “Roger Bates was killed last night, Clyde Simmons the night before.”

Bob’s eyes flickered wide for an instant, a crack in his rugged composure. “Roger and Clyde? First I’ve heard of it,” he muttered, a deep frown on his brow. “Terrible business.”

“Thing is,” Frank continued, “we’re worried you might be on that killer’s list too. We don’t know for sure, don’t want to cause you undo alarm, but we thought we’d better check in with you.”

Bob’s face registered gratitude, but an underlying nervousness didn’t escape Frank’s seasoned eye.

“As it happens …” Bob began slowly, his gaze drifting over Frank’s shoulder, peering into the deepening twilight of his yard. “Could be nothing, and it probably is. But now that you mention it...” His voice trailed off as if he was considering whether to share more or retreat into silence.

“Go on,” Frank encouraged,

Bob’s hand moved almost involuntarily toward the back of his neck, rubbing it as though warding off a chill. “Well, I saw someone snooping around earlier this evening, down by the creek. A man, I reckon, big build,” he said, his eyes narrowing against the dark that crept ever closer to the farmhouse. “Had my flashlight on him, but he bolted quick as a deer into the woods.” He gestured vaguely towards the creek, a ribbon of silver barely visible beyond the ragged silhouettes of trees.

“Could be our guy,” Jake mused aloud.

“Mind if we take a look around your grounds, Mr. Anderson?” Jenna asked.

“Be my guests,” Bob replied gruffly. “Probably nothing. Whoever it was is probably gone by now.” His gaze followed the pair as they stepped off the porch, drawing their weapons and moving off into the dim light.

“Come on in, then,” Bob said to Frank.

Frank hesitated, then reminded himself that the sheriff and her deputy were more than capable of managing for themselves. He stepped into the small living room and eased himself into the embrace of an armchair that had clearly served its time. The fabric was worn, the springs less forgiving than he remembered.

“What made you folks think I might be in danger?” Bob asked, sitting in another old stuffed chair.

“We followed a trail of old land deeds, ledgers,” Frank replied. “All pointing back to a long-forgotten history of the Big Sky Ranch. It’s got its bloody roots, that one.”

Bob looked interested, so Frank continued. “Turns out, there may be more to these murders than just random acts of violence. They might be connected to descendants of the original settlers involved in the land dispute,” he said, pausing to let the implication sink in.

Bob’s chair squeaked as he leaned forward, his features sharpening with interest. His hands, rough from years tending to cattle and land, gripped the arms of his chair firmly. “You don’t say,” Bob murmured, and there was something new in his voice.

“Yep,” Frank replied. “The way the land was split up after Mitch Bishop lost the ranch—it stirred bad blood that’s been simmering for generations.”

“Quite a tale,” Bob agreed, nodding slowly, his gaze never leaving Frank’s. “Mitch Bishop and the Big Sky Ranch...” He sat back, his expression clouded with thought. “I’ve heard whispers, seen things that didn’t sit right over the years,” he began, his voice a low drawl. “Folks around here have long memories, and longer grudges.”

He seemed to consider his words before he spoke again. “Say, Frank, remind me how your family came to Trentville? I’ve forgotten the details.”

Frank rubbed at the stubble on his chin, momentarily disoriented by the abrupt shift away from the tense subject of the murders.

“Well, to be honest, my family history’s a bit hazy.” His brow furrowed as he tried to sift through the fragments of stories passed down over dinner tables and porch swings. “Family lore isn’t something we talked about much. Guess it didn’t seem all that important,” Frank added. He had always been more focused on the living than the deeds of those long gone.

“What I do know is that my great-great-something-or-other grandfather, Wilkes Doyle, moved the family out here from Atlanta back in the mid-1800s.” Frank leaned back, gripping the arms of the chair as he sought his memory of details. “Started Trentville’s first livestock feed store, if I remember right.”

For a moment, Bob was silent, his eyes distant. Then, drawing a deep breath, he fixed his intense gaze back on Frank. “That’s right, that’s right,” he murmured. “You know, Frank, I’ve got a little piece of county history that might interest you. Mind if I go fetch it?” The question was rhetorical; Bob was already on his feet, moving with a purpose that suggested this was more than just a casual offer.

Frank opened his mouth to respond but found himself speaking to an empty chair as Bob disappeared into the next room. He caught the faint sounds of drawers being pulled open and shut, accompanied by the occasional soft clink of metal against wood.

When Bob returned, Frank’s heart hammered against his ribcage as his eyes fell upon the objects in Bob’s hands. In one, the unmistakable outline of a brand – the tree-shaped design that had become a symbol of death in their small community. And in the other, a revolver, its barrel glistening dully in the low light, aimed unerringly at Frank’s chest.

“Bob, what the hell—?” Frank started, but the words died in his throat.

“You’re about to get a history lesson, Frank,” Bob said, his voice eerily calm, as if discussing the weather rather than holding a man at gunpoint. “And believe me, it’s long overdue.”