You're Not Safe

by Mary Burton

Genres: Romantic Suspense; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

He Will Never Forget



The broken body hanging from a tree in Texas Hill Country . . . the frozen figure huddled in a meat locker . . . only at second glance does the truth become apparent. What seems like suicide is far more sinister, and the terror is only beginning . . .



Never Forgive



One devastating moment changed Greer Templeton's life and ended two others. Now, with a body found on her property and Texas Ranger Tec Bragg on her doorstep, Greer's nightmare has returned. With each new victim, her link to Tec's case grows, and soon it will be too late to run.



And Never Let Them Live . . .



Greer hoped the past was behind her, but an obsessed killer has never forgotten the bond that unites them. One by one, he will track down his victims, finish what was started—and make Greer's dying wish come true . . .



Contains mature themes.

Release date: January 29, 2019

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

Monday, June 2, 8 A.M.

Fatigue fueled impatience burrowing under Ranger Tec Bragg’s skin as he pressed his booted foot against the accelerator of his black SUV barreling along the rocky rural route cutting into the Texas Hill Country. Scrubby trees and low-lying shrubs bordered the road brushed with bone-dry dirt. A handful of plump clouds floated in a blue sky and teased a good soaking rain to ease the yearlong drought.

Bragg could hope and wish the rains didn’t destroy his crime scene, but he didn’t bother. Life had taught him his wants and needs didn’t mean shit to the universe. Whether the rains came or not, he’d deal.

Flashing blue lights of half a dozen police cars and media vans told him he’d found his crime scene. He drove past them all until he reached the Texas Department of Public Safety officer manning the entrance to the crime scene.

He slowed, unrolled his window as the uniformed officer approached, and touched the brim of his white hat.

“Morning. Ranger Tec Bragg. Heard I’m needed.”

The officer touched the brim of his trooper’s hat. “Yes, sir, Sergeant Bragg. Follow this dirt road a half a mile, and you’ll see the crime scene. No missing it. Sheriff is waiting for you.”

“Appreciate it.”

“Glad to have you back, Sergeant Bragg,” the grinning officer said. “Heard about what you did on the border.”

Bragg’s mood soured. Fame didn’t fit him well. “Right.”

The road led him toward a new cluster of cars from the local sheriff’s department. He’d received a call just after dawn from the local sheriff requesting a visit on an apparent suicide. The dead man, the sheriff drawled, had an older brother richer than Midas who claimed the governor as a friend. Sheriff wanted a Ranger on site for possible damage control.

Shit. His recent promotion, touted as a reward for his work on the border, required deeds he hated more than the cartels or the coyotes. Hand-holding. Meetings. Press briefings. He’d landed smack in the middle of a politicking world he’d carefully avoided for years.

Since he was sixteen, Bragg had gone his own way and learned it was best kept to himself. He didn’t rely on anyone and was careful to make sure no one relied on him.

His leather boots crunched against the dry earth as he took long impatient strides toward the scene. He wore a starched white shirt that itched, string tie, and creased khakis. His SIG Sauer gun hung on his right hip and on his left side rested his cell and cuffs. He sported a newly polished, albeit well-worn, Texas Ranger star on his chest.

Despite the heat, he resisted the urge to roll up his shirtsleeves as he nodded to more deputies, all curious about the suicide garnering a Texas Ranger the likes of Tec Bragg. He made his way toward the yellow crime-scene tape. Ahead he spotted county sheriff Jake Wheeler.

Tall and broad-shouldered, Wheeler wore his brown uniform, cowboy boots, and a wide-brimmed hat that covered a thick shock of white hair. The sun had etched deep lines in his tanned face. A belly rounded over the edge of a nonregulation thick silver belt buckle engraved with his initials. In his late fifties, Wheeler had been sheriff for twenty years but now faced a tough re-election next year. Though he didn’t fit the image of a politician, Wheeler was well practiced at avoiding controversy. Wheeler wanted to pawn off an explosive case.

The morning heat had already darkened Wheeler’s shirt with sweat. “Ranger Bragg.”

Bragg extended his hand to Sheriff Wheeler. “Morning, Sheriff.”

“Thanks for coming, Bragg. I think we might have an issue.”

Bragg glanced beyond Wheeler and the ring of officers surrounding the yellow tape to the crime scene. It wasn’t hard to miss the body. It hung from a tree.

A couple of hours, let alone a couple of days, in the Texas sun played havoc with the dead. The intense temperature triggered bloating and skin slippage within hours and the decomposition process drew black flies, which already buzzed. “By the looks he’s not been out here long.”

“I’m guessing not more than six hours. This time tomorrow he’ll be one hell of a mess.”

“I hear you found his wallet.”

“We surely did. It was at the base of the tree. If there’d been no wallet, I’m not sure how easy it would have been to identify him.”

Bragg glanced toward the tree and saw the forensic technician’s yellow numbered marker by the wallet. “Left it out so there’d be no missing it.”

Wheeler hooked his thumbs in his belt buckle. “Someone wanted it found.”

Bragg rested his hands on his hips. “I didn’t catch the victim’s name.”

“Didn’t want to say it over the radio until we were absolutely sure. Never know. Wallet might not belong to the dead guy.”

“Whose name on the wallet?”

“Rory Edwards.”

“Edwards? The oil family.” David Edwards was indeed a heavy hitter in Texas politics and explained Bragg’s summons.

“One and the same. Rory listed his brother’s fancy West Austin address on his driver’s license.”

“Old man was a wildcatter who struck it rich. Family has more money than God. Father died years back as I recall.”

“He did. Mother died last year but older brother still owns the family home. Controls the family business and has his eye on the governor’s office.”

As Bragg moved closer the buzz of black flies mingled with the growing stench of death and decay. “You think this is Rory?”

“Not one hundred percent sure. This guy doesn’t look like his picture so much.”

“Hell of a way to start the week.”

A faint smile lifted the edge of Wheeler’s mouth. “Yeah.”

“You wouldn’t just call me in for a suicide, Jake. I know you’ve an election coming next spring but a suicide is fairly straightforward.”

Wheeler’s brow knitted. “Look at the crime scene.”

Bragg let his gaze roam the site. First off he noticed there was no discarded chair, stepstool, or ladder near the body. Shifting his focus to the tree, he noted the rope snaked up from the dead man’s body, up and over a branch and to the base of the tree where it was securely tied. It wouldn’t have been an easy climb up the tree and out onto the branch dragging a rope but a motivated man could do it. Still, if Edwards had jumped from that height, he’d not only have broken his neck but the velocity of the fall combined with the body’s weight would have left a deep gash in the neck or, worse, decapitated it.

This wasn’t a suicide.

“Who found the body?”

“Surveyors. A vineyard owner recently purchased the land and plans to clear it and plant more vines. The surveyors were out here early just after dawn to beat the heat. They smelled him before they saw him. The buzzing of the flies drew their gazes up. They called it in.”

“Surveyors check out?”

“They did. Work for a local firm. I know both of them. They were pretty rattled so I let them go on. If you need them later I’ll get you their numbers.”

“What vineyard hired them?”

Wheeler cleared his throat. “Didn’t catch the name.”

“Find out.” Bragg rested his hands on his hips, studying the dead man’s boots, which were custom-made and would have set him back several thousand dollars. Fancy boots jived with the fancy address on the license.

“Want a closer look?” Wheeler said, offering plastic gloves.

“Sure do.” Bragg accepted the gloves and ducked under the crime-scene tape and waited for the tech to log him into the site. He nodded to the forensics technicians as he glanced around the area surrounding the body. Didn’t take more than a second to see the tire tracks. He knelt and studied the imprint. Judging by the depth of the tracks, the truck had backed up to the site under the body and then driven straight back out.

Bragg’s gaze trailed the tracks down the dirt road cutting through the brush and leading back to the rural route. “Rory might have driven a truck in here, but he didn’t drive it out.”

“I’m thinking he had a little help.”

Bragg rose, stretching his limbs. Too little sleep in the last months had left him stiff. “I’d bet Mr. Edwards stood on the flatbed of the truck when it pulled out.”

“And then he dropped and strangled to death.” Wheeler nodded. “Forensics also bagged two cigarette butts. DNA will tell us if it belonged to the victim.”

They might find Edwards’s DNA on one or both butts but Bragg’s gut said no. “I’m guessing it was the second person at the scene. Someone else was here and lingered to watch Mr. Edwards die.”

Wheeler rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “Edwards had a history of trouble. Drugs. Drinking. Had a car accident in my county years back, and the family paid off the guy he hit. Problem went away. Heard similar tales of other such problems. He could have pushed the wrong person too far.”

“Maybe.” The dead man’s hands dangled at his side. Blood, no longer pumped by the heart, had settled in his fingers leaving them dark as if bruised. The nighttime heat, which had reached the low nineties, had also accelerated decomposition, causing the skin on his hands to loosen.

“I’ve seen murders like this before along the border. Cartels leave their victims out for all to see. Don’t see hangings as much as beheadings or shootings. And you sure don’t see folks from a family like the Edwardses getting strung up much.” Bragg noted the red rope bracelet on Rory’s right wrist. It appeared homemade. “Have you called the family?”

“Not yet. Figured I’d run it by you first. Didn’t want to stir a hornet’s nest if I didn’t have to.”

And being up for re-election, Wheeler wanted Bragg to do the stirring. “When will they be ready to cut him loose?”

“He’s good to go now. We were waiting for you.”

Bragg nodded, knowing his day had changed from meetings to fieldwork. He couldn’t say he was sorry. “Go ahead and cut him down.”

Wheeler nodded to the officer by the tree and both watched as the uniformed officer raised a saw blade to the rope. While two other deputies grabbed hold of the rope, the first officer cut. In a matter of minutes the hemp frayed and then finally gave way. The officers dug their booted feet into the ground, supporting the body’s dead weight. While a forensic tech snapped pictures, the officers slowly lowered the body to the ground. Stiff with rigor mortis it stood unbending. As the rope slackened, another gloved tech took the body by the shoulders and eased it to the ground. More pictures were snapped as flies buzzed and swarmed.

Bragg walked over to the body and studied the man’s half-open eyes and bloated face. He had grown accustomed to the foul smells of death. The gangs and cartels that moved in and out of the border traded in death as easily as dollars. Whereas the younger cops around him now had paled and taken a step back, he knelt and studied the victim. He’d built a reputation tackling dirty jobs.

Rope burns ringed the victim’s wrists. “Why bind his hands and then cut him loose?” he said, more to himself.

“Maybe the killer thought we’d be fooled by the suicide scenario,” Wheeler offered. “If the rains had come as the weather guys had said, those tire tracks would have been washed away. And a few more days out here and those wrist marks would have been gone.”

“Maybe.” Bragg glanced beyond the scene to the rugged brush and scrub trees around him. “What’s around this immediate area?”

“Immediate area? Not much. Brush and scrub. But like I said, on the adjacent land there is a vineyard. It’s small and family owned. Been around for twenty-plus years.”

Bragg studied the dead man’s brown and rotted teeth. He lifted the victim’s jean jacket and searched for any signs of trauma, bits of paper, stains—anything to offer clues about the man. He found a receipt in the front shirt pocket for Tate’s Bar. In his pants pocket he found two rumpled dollar bills, a room key, a couple of wrapped peppermints, and a half dozen sobriety chips. “Guy has nothing on him worth taking.”

“He sure pissed off someone.”

“That he did.”

Bragg rose and glanced back at the tree. Immediately he spotted the photo flapping in the slight breeze. He moved toward the picture featuring a young teenage couple. Both kids had the look of money. She wore pearl earrings and a gold chain around her neck. And he wore a white-collared shirt flipped up. His hair was thick and blond as if he spent a lot of time in the sun. Bragg leaned in and studied the boy’s smooth, hairless face. If he wasn’t mistaken, the boy was his victim. “Did you see this?”

Wheeler frowned and moved toward the tree. “Yeah, looks like the victim in the picture. But the image is old.”

“Who is the girl?”

“Don’t recognize her. A teen crush, maybe?” Bragg pulled out his cell phone, snapped a picture of the image, and then leaned in to study the young girl’s face. She smiled but it wasn’t joyful. Wherever she’d been when the picture was taken, she didn’t want to be there. Rory, on the other hand, appeared happy. His posture was relaxed and his smile full and genuine.

“The picture’s here for a reason.” He lingered on the girl’s image a beat longer, and then slid the phone back in its belt cradle. “We need to identify that girl.”

“It’s about a decade old judging by the victim’s appearance.”

“We need to find out what he was doing ten years ago. We know he didn’t kill himself, so whoever strung him up put this picture here for a reason.”

Wheeler nodded. “You think she killed him?”

He studied the girl’s strained smile. “She’d not be the first woman to track someone from her past and kill ’em.” Bragg glanced toward the ground at the wallet lying beside the evidence marker. He knelt, pulled a pen from his pocket, and opened the wallet to find a couple of dollars, no credit cards, and an expired Texas driver’s license.

“Ranger Bragg.” The summons came from the forensic technician. Melinda Ashburn, if he remembered correctly, was in her late twenties and wore her red hair back in a tight ponytail. Freckles sprinkled her nose.

He moved toward her. “Yes, ma’am?”

“The medical examiner can move the body anytime now. I’ve shot all the pictures I need, and I’ve made detailed sketches of the scene. Given the heat it’s better if we get the victim out of the sun.”

Behind her the medical examiner’s technicians stood ready with a stretcher and black body bag. “Go on ahead and take him. I’ve seen what I need. Though I’d like a set of those photos you took sent to me.”

“Sure. Will do.”

Often after the confusion of the day he’d sit in his home study and go over crime-scene prints. The camera lens frequently captured what the eye missed during the chaos.

Bragg arrived at the medical examiner’s office an hour after the body. He’d been delayed at the scene by the media who’d wanted a statement. While Wheeler spoke, he’d stood quietly off to the side.

Now, the building’s cool air greeted him and offered welcome relief from the heat radiating from the asphalt parking lot. The temperature gauge in his car had hit 105 degrees, and he bet it would rise higher by midafternoon.

Waiting for him at the end of the hallway was a tall, long-legged Ranger who now leaned casually against the wall as he checked his phone for texts. On the way in, Bragg had called in Ranger Brody Winchester. The two had worked together years ago in Houston. Bragg had transferred from El Paso two months ago and seeing as he’d dealt with enough changes in his life recently, he liked the idea of working with someone familiar.

Winchester had recently married Dr. Jo Granger, a psychologist who worked from time to time with the Rangers. Rumor had it the two had been married in college, but it wasn’t Bragg’s style to poke into another man’s personal business. Lord knows he had his share of personal crap he didn’t discuss.

Winchester pushed away from the wall and tucked his phone in its hip cradle. “Once I heard from you, I called ahead and let the medical examiner know we were coming.” He extended his hand. “Told them to clear the decks.”

Bragg’s iron grip matched Winchester’s. “Good. I want answers before I visit with the family.”

Bragg and Winchester showed their badges to the officer at the front desk and then headed to the bank of elevators.

“I pulled the victim’s rap sheet, like you requested. Sheriff Wheeler was right. Rory Edwards has been in trouble since he could drive. Family’s been cleaning up his messes for years.”

Bragg hit the down button, thinking his own old man had never eased his trouble, but had been the source of his burdens. The old bastard had been a worthless drunk who’d used Bragg and his older sister Sue as punching bags. Sue had left home at seventeen. He’d been fourteen and figured she’d send for him when she settled. But she’d found herself a man within months and married. Sorry, Tec, I just can’t take you with me. I got a chance to be happy and need to take it. You’ll find your chance one day.

Sue had sent him a Christmas card the next year and told him she’d had a son, Mitch, but that had been the last he’d received word from her until three years ago when an officer in Houston had notified him she’d died of an overdose. The husband, who’d never legally married Sue, had been long gone and the boy, Mitch, pissed as hell, had enlisted in the Marines.

Mitch had returned to Austin two months ago, recovering from wounds both visible and invisible from his tour in Iraq. Bragg would later learn the Humvee Mitch had been driving had been hit by a roadside bomb, which had all but obliterated the vehicle. There’d been four soldiers inside. Everyone but Mitch had died.

When the boy’s commanding officer had contacted Bragg, he’d informed him the boy was in a bad way. Seeing as Bragg was all the family Mitch had, he’d accepted the promotion and transfer back to Austin. His family might be a fractured mess, but it was his family.

Bragg didn’t hold illusions of a Hallmark family reunion, but he had figured he’d get the boy on his feet before he returned to fieldwork on the border. However, he’d quickly learned nurturing a troubled kid fit him as well as politicking.

Mitch’s wounds from shell fragments had been easy enough to fix but it was the post-traumatic stress disorder that had left invisible scars. The kid had nightmares constantly and most were loud and violent. Mitch wasn’t eating, and his drinking was becoming a real problem. Last night Mitch hadn’t come in the door until four A.M., and he’d been drunk. Bragg and Mitch had one hell of a fight, and Mitch would have left if Bragg hadn’t taken his keys. You’re not my father! The situation had to change soon for both their sakes.

Bragg could track a killer to hell and back, but he couldn’t find the words to soothe his nephew’s grief.

He shoved aside the unease and focused on the job. “They won’t be able to help him out of this mess.”

“No amount of money is gonna fix this.”

Bragg checked his phone half hoping he’d gotten a message or call from Mitch. He’d received several calls from the office, but none from his nephew.

After the predawn blowup, the boy had staggered to his room and fallen into bed. Bragg had left him but now questioned that decision. Bragg feared the boy wouldn’t make it to September at the rate he was withdrawing.

“How’s Mitch doing?” Winchester, a former marine, punched the elevator button.

Bragg never talked about his personal life. Ever. But this problem, like the weather, didn’t give a shit about what Bragg wanted. “He’s quiet. Doesn’t talk much.”

Winchester didn’t speak for a moment. “You know my wife is a psychologist.”

“Yeah.”

“Jo would be glad to talk to him. She’s good with people.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Getting Mitch to talk is like pulling teeth.”

“He needs to talk and get engaged. Being alone is the worst. Is he drinking excessively?”

He flexed his fingers. “Yeah.”

Mitch was Bragg’s only family. His problem. His to fix. But he didn’t have any ideas. “The VA hooked him up with a support group at the local crisis center. It’s run by volunteers and a guy named Stewart.”

Winchester kept his stance casual, his gaze ahead. “Is it helping?”

They stepped onto the elevator. “I don’t know. It’s hard to get the boy to string more than two words together.”

Winchester grunted disapproval. “I can ask Jo about the group. If she doesn’t know about it, she’ll find out.”

Bragg rubbed the back of his neck and punched LL for lower level. Getting outside help went against Bragg’s nature. “I’d appreciate that.”

Winchester texted the details to his wife. He hit send. Another text came back in seconds. He read it and nodded. “She says they’re a good group. Dr. Stewart’s well respected and good, she says. She’s off to a meeting but will dig up more information.”

“Great.”

The elevator doors opened. They stepped off and moved down the hallway toward a set of double doors and into the exam room. A foul odor greeted them and drew their attention to a stainless-steel gurney holding a sheet-clad body. Another smaller table held a collection of instruments. A medical assistant, dressed in scrubs, pulled the sheet back.

Next to the gurney stood Dr. Hank Watterson. In his mid-thirties, Watterson stood tall, thin like a young poplar, in his green scrubs. A thick dark mustache added interest to an average face.

“Dr. Watterson,” Bragg said.

The doctor glanced up from a sink where he lathered his hands with soap. Intelligent, sharp green eyes stared at them through horn-rimmed glasses. “So, you two are the reason I was called in on my day off?”

Winchester grinned. “Sorry, doc. No rest for the wicked.”

Dr. Watterson grunted. “Body arrived about a half hour ago, and I was just about to start the autopsy.”

Bragg didn’t care much for the medical examiner’s office. Cold and sterile, the buzz of fluorescent lights, it reminded him of the hospital where his mother died when he was six. “Appreciate you getting right on this.”

“Sooner it’s done, the sooner I can get out of here.” Dr. Watterson nodded toward the surgical gowns. “This one is not going to be easy. Might as well suit up.”

Bragg and Winchester donned hospital gowns, and stood back. The victim’s clothes had been stripped and tagged, and his hands remained wrapped in paper bags, as they had been at the crime scene. Dr. Watterson studied the body’s bloated belly.

Rory Edwards’s hands and feet were black with settled blood and his head tilted to the left as it had when he dangled from the rope. His arms and chest were covered with tattoos. A skull on fire. Barbed wire through a heart on his arm. Crosses. The letter E. Stripped he looked leaner and malnourished. Fading track marks peppered the veins of his left and right arms.

The doctor started with an external examination, noted the rope burns around the neck, and confirmed the victim also had ligature marks on his wrists. He went on to catalogue rope marks, tattoos, and the absence of any other trauma.

As he pressed a scalpel to make a Y incision in the victim’s chest, Dr. Watterson said, “I hear the victim’s brother’s pretty rich and has a lot of connections.”

“He is.” Bragg nodded. “Which is why we wanted to be absolutely sure we’ve identified the right man before we made the death notification.”

Dr. Watterson kept his gaze on the body as he spoke. “No sense churning up a hornet’s nest unless you have to.”

“About right.”

The technician removed the bags from the victim’s hands, and Dr. Watterson, after a thorough inspection, scraped under the fingernails. If Rory had fought with his killer, the possibility existed that DNA remained under his fingernails.

“I’ll run a toxicology screen but won’t have results back for a day or two. But judging by his teeth, he was malnourished and had one hell of a tooth infection. Left untreated the tooth infection alone would have done him serious damage soon. My guess is he turned to meth in recent years.”

Dr. Watterson turned to a light box illuminating dental X-rays. “The bridge work and fillings belonging to Rory Edwards’s dental records matches your victim.”

“This guy is Rory Edwards.”

“Yes. And I can confirm he did die of strangulation.”

“He was dangling from a tree,” Winchester said.

“You never can tell for sure until the exam.” The doctor moved to the head of the table and pulled lighted magnifying lenses toward the dead man’s neck. He studied the rope burns. “There is old scarring on his neck.”

Bragg frowned. “What kind?”

The doctor was quiet for a moment. “Looks like an old rope burn. The current burn covers most of it up. Could have been easily missed. But it’s there.” He pointed to a small faint white area ringing the victim’s throat. “He hanged by his neck before.”

“Suicide attempt?” Winchester said.

“Maybe. Asphyxiation games aren’t uncommon in high-risk individuals. And this fellow is definitely high-risk.”

Bragg leaned in and studied the faint white scar. “The crime scene didn’t have the look of an erotic game. But who knows. How old are the scars?”

Dr. Watterson shrugged. “Can’t say, Bragg. But it’s been years.”

Bragg thought about the image of the teenage couple nailed to the tree. It appeared Rory had been a happy kid. In fact, conjuring the picture, Bragg would have figured the girl with the moody, edgy glint in her eye was the troublemaker.

Monday, June 2, 3 P.M.

Temperatures had slid into the triple digits when Bragg and Winchester arrived at the sleek glass tower located in the heart of Austin. A centerpiece in the city, the glass building glistened, but despite the heat, had a chilling effect.

They moved through the revolving door and to the main reception desk. Bragg showed his Texas Ranger star to the heavyset, gray-haired rent-a-cop behind the desk. “Texas Rangers for David Edwards.”

The request prompted confusion, but the guard picked up the sleek black phone and pressed a button from the dozens on his console. He passed on Bragg’s request, listened, and then replaced the phone in the receiver.

The guard stood and tucked in his shirt. “His office is on the twentieth floor. The receptionist said you could come up, but she didn’t promise access to Mr. Edwards.”

“Then I guess we’ll have to take that up with her when we arrive.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Rangers made their way to the bank of elevators and punched the UP arrow. The doors opened immediately and the ride to the twentieth floor was quick and as smooth as the building’s glass exterior.

When the door opened, there were more sets of glass doors and beyond that another receptionist. Etched in the doors was a large letter E.

“Rory had an E tattooed on his body,” Winchester said.

“Odd a guy who spent his life avoiding the family would tattoo a memento of it on his chest.” Bragg shook his head. “But then dealing with family doesn’. . .