Page 13 of The Perfect Hosts
“Bill Ladd. I’m a Woodson County deputy,” the officer says, lowering the light so that Jamie can get a better look at who he’s talking to. Deputy Ladd is a short, powerfully built man, a few years older than Jamie. “The sheriff said you’d be showing up. Not much to see right now. Too dark, but you’re welcome to walk the scene. We did put a tent over the explosion site as soon as the firefighters gave the all clear.”
“It’ll wait until the morning,” Jamie says, agreeing that it’s much too dark to get any kind of sense of the scene. “What’re your initial thoughts? Accident? Arson?”
“I doubt it’s arson,” Ladd says. “I’m guessing the planned explosion went south. The fire marshal will be here after sunrise.”
Are the homeowners available?” he asks.
“No, they’re both at the hospital,” Ladd says.
“And their names?” Jamie asks.
“Wes and Madeline Drake,” Ladd says, wiping mist from his face. “They own this ranch, along with Wes’s brother, Dix, though he doesn’t have much to do with the day-to-day workings.”
Jamie’s heart starts pounding as anxiety winds itself around his throat. This would be the time to call SAC Sykes and tellhim he needs to recuse himself from the case, but something stops him. He hasn’t done any actual investigating yet. He doesn’t even know what they are dealing with. “How many dead?” he manages to ask.
“Right now, one, but there are plenty of injured. I think there were no less than a dozen ambulances from area hospitals that showed up. If you want to talk to the Drakes, your best bet is to drive to the hospital in Jackson.”
“I’ll be back at first light, but call me if something comes up,” Jamie says, handing Ladd his business card.
The drive from Lone Tree Ranch to the hospital takes him about thirty minutes. He tries not to think too hard as he travels down the winding country roads and long highways until lazily spinning wind turbines, ghostly giants, give way to more prehistoric landforms. Jamie knew he would find himself back in Nightjar again one day. Maybe he’d even wanted to be back here. Why else would he have taken this job? Why else would he have dragged his wife all the way here?
Jamie parks his car in the hospital lot. It’s one thirty in the morning, but the sooner he can talk to any witnesses, the better. Jamie pulls his lanky frame from the SUV and stretches, his muscles tight from the long drive from home. He walks through the brightly lit parking lot to the hospital emergency entrance. Inside, the waiting area is nearly empty now, except for a few miserable-looking people, and he’s welcomed by a weary woman sitting behind a desk with a plastic barrier. Jamie shows her his badge, and she guides him into the inner workings of the ER. The smell of latex gloves and antiseptic is strong.
A tall man, dressed in cowboy boots and a Western shirt, his face smudged with soot, is looming over a petite nurse who is not in the least intimidated. The two are shouting at eachother, and a deputy is trying to wrench her way in between the man and the nurse, but neither is budging.
Jamie fights the urge to intervene. Over the years he’s found it much more effective, when entering the fray of a new case, to linger on the periphery, to watch, to examine the dynamics before flashing his ATF credentials. Better to be seen as a resource rather than an interloper.
“If you’ll come with me, Mr. Monaghan,” the deputy urges. “We can go speak somewhere privately.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” the man shouts. “I want to see my wife. Now!” He glares at the nurse who calmly explains that there is no way she’s letting him search the examination rooms for his wife.
A very pregnant woman wearing a hospital gown steps from an exam room. Eyes wide, she takes in the scene in front of her.
“Dalton,” she says. No one appears to be listening, and the shouting continues. Jamie is ready to step in when the pregnant woman speaks again. “Dalton, I’m so, so sorry,” she says, loudly. “She’s gone.”
Dalton turns to her. “What do you mean?” he asks, his voice filled with fear.
“Johanna’s gone. She died,” the woman says, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”
“Died?” the man repeats, his eyes narrowing with confusion. “Johanna?”
“I’m so sorry,” the pregnant woman says, rushing to the man and pulling him into an embrace. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I’m going to do without her.”
The man’s face goes slack, and his hands hang limply at his sides. “Dalton, I’m so sorry. I don’t understand what happened,” the woman says. “I really don’t.”
“She’s dead?” the man asks, looking to the deputy, who nods.
“I’m afraid so,” the deputy says. “Sir, please, come with me, and I can tell you more.” All the earlier bluster has leached from the man, and he allows himself to be led away.
The nurse gives the pregnant woman, who is openly crying now, a hard stare before returning to her spot behind the nurses’ station.
The ER begins to hum again with beeps and alarms, nurses bustle through the hallways, and a maintenance worker pushes a large dust mop across the tiled floor. The pregnant woman looks helplessly around the hallway, then retreats into the room and shuts the door. Jamie approaches the counter, and the nurse looks at him expectantly.
“I’m Jamie Saldano with ATF. I’m here about the incident at Lone Tree Ranch, and when the deputy here is done with the gentleman she’s talking to, I’ll need to speak with her.”
“Badge,” the nurse orders, and Jamie lifts it from where it’s hanging around neck. “All right,” the nurse says. “But it could be a while. She’s notifying the husband about his wife. What a mess. The things people do for attention. This is the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard of in a long time. I hope they get arrested for this nonsense. Are you sure you don’t want to go back with the deputy?”
“No, I’ll give them their privacy for now,” Jamie says. “Do you have a name of the victim?”