the words all but burning a hole through her tongue.
“Grayson?” Hawk repeated. She was talking about Micah’s twin brother. The smooth talker of the pair. He remembered thinking that the man could have easily been a snake oil salesman in the Old West. Last he’d heard, Grayson had hit the trail, spouting nonsense. They called that being a “motivational speaker” these days. Still a snake oil salesman in his book. “Samuel Grayson did all this?”
She nodded, forcing herself to look both enthusiastic and respectful at the mere mention of the man’s name. “He and the investors he brought with him,” she told him.
She hated the look of disbelief and disappointment she saw in Hawk’s eyes, but she knew she couldn’t risk telling him the way she actually felt. Couldn’t tell him that she knew Grayson, charming though he might seem at first, was guilty of brainwashing the more gullible, the more desperate of the town’s citizens. These were people who had tried to eke out a living for so long that when they had been given comforts for the very first time in their lives, they’d willingly fallen under the man’s spell. They had given their allegiance to Grayson gladly, never realizing that they were also trading in their souls. Samuel Grayson accepted nothing less than complete submission. He fed on the power he had over the growing population of the so-called, little utopian world he had created.
So the rumors and his first impression were right, Hawk thought grimly. This was what Micah had vaguely alluded to when he’d asked to meet with him. Samuel Grayson had established a cult out here, preying on the vulnerable, the desperate, the easily swayed. He’d used all that against them to establish a beachhead for his particular brand of lunatic fringe.
“And where is Samuel Grayson right now?” he asked.
Again, the words all but scalded Carly’s tongue, but she had no choice. She’d seen one of Samuel’s henchmen come around the back of the school yard. The man didn’t even bother pretending that he wasn’t watching her. It was enough to make a person deeply paranoid.
“Samuel is wherever he is needed the most,” she replied.
Without fully realizing what he was doing, Hawk took hold of her shoulders, fighting the very strong urge to shake her, return her to the clearheaded, intelligent woman he’d once known—or at least believed he’d once known.
Exasperation filled his veins as he cried, “Oh God, Carly, you can’t possibly really believe what you just spouted.”
Carly forced herself to raise her chin the way she always used to when she was bracing for a fight. “Of course I believe what I just said. And I’m not ‘spouting,’ I’m repeating the truth.”
Hawk rolled his eyes, battling disgust.
“There a problem here?” someone asked directly behind him.
The low, gravelly voice belonged to the town’s chief of police, one Bo Fargo. It was a job title that Fargo had apparently bestowed upon himself. The title elevated him from the lowly position of sheriff, a job he had just narrowly been elected to in the first place. But he did Grayson’s bidding and, as such, was assured of a job for life, no matter what.
Carly’s eyes widened.
“No, no problem,” she declared quickly, hoping to avert this from turning into something ugly, given half a chance. She knew how Fargo operated. The stocky man didn’t believe in just throwing his weight around but in using his fists and the butt of his gun to do his “convincing,” as well. She didn’t want to see Hawk hurt. “I’m just telling Hawk here about all the changes that have been introduced to Cold Plains—thanks to Samuel—since he left here.”
The name obviously struck a chord. Fargo squinted as he peered up into Hawk’s face.
In his fifties, the tall, husky man was accustomed to having both men and women alike cowering before him whenever he scowled. He enjoyed watching the spineless citizens being intimidated by him. He went so far as to relish it.
“Hawk?” Fargo echoed as he stared at the outsider through watery blue eyes.
“Hawk Bledsoe,” Carly prompted by way of a reminder. “You remember Hawk, don’t you, Chief?” she prodded, watching the man’s round face for some sign of recognition.
“Tall, skinny kid,” Fargo said, deliberately taking a derogatory tone.
Hawk gave no indication that he was about to back away. “I filled out some.”
There was another moment of silence, as if Fargo was debating which way to play this. Hawk was not easily intimidated, and Fargo clearly didn’t want to get into a contest where he might wind up being the loser. So for now, he laughed and patted his own gut.
“Haven’t we all?” he asked rhetorically. “So what brings you back, Bledsoe? You thinking of resettling here in Cold Plains now that it’s finally got something to offer?” he asked.
Hawk’s eyes never left Fargo’s. “No, I’m here to investigate the murders of five of your town’s female citizens.”
To back up his statement, Hawk took out his wallet and held up his ID for the chief to see.
If he didn’t know better, Hawk thought, he would have sworn that Fargo turned pale beneath his deeply tanned face.
Chapter 4
The next minute, Hawk saw the chief of police pull himself together. What appeared to have been a momentary lapse, a chink in his armor, disappeared without a trace. Instead, a steely confidence descended over the older man’s features again, eliminating any hint that he had been unnerved by talk of an investigation.
“I’m afraid that someone’s been pulling your leg, Bledsoe,” Fargo told him in a measured, firm voice. “We don’t allow any crime here in Cold Plains.”
Talk about being pompous, Hawk thought. The man set the bar at a new height. “Well, whether you allow it or not, Sheriff—”
“Chief,” Fargo corrected tersely. “I’m the chief of police here.”
Hawk inclined his head. If the man wanted to play games, so be it. He could play along for now, as long as it bought him some time and he could continue with his investigation. Not that he thought Fargo would be of any help to him. He just didn’t want the man to be a hindrance.
“Chief,” Hawk echoed, then continued, “but those five women are still dead nonetheless.”
Minute traces of a scowl took over Fargo’s average features. “I run a very tight ship here, Bledsoe. Everyone’s happy, everyone gets along. Look around you,” he instructed gruffly as he gestured about to encompass the entire town. “In case you haven’t noticed, this isn’t the town you left behind when you tore out of here after graduation.” His eyes narrowed with the intention of pinning his opponent down. “I’ve been the chief of police these last five years and I don’t recall anyone finding any bodies of dead women in Cold Plains,” he concluded, closing the subject as far as he was concerned.
“That’s because they weren’t found here,” Hawk explained evenly. “The bodies were discovered in five different locations throughout Wyoming over the last five years.”
The expression on Fargo’s
