CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

They had their first solid lead, and they shot like an arrowhead towards it.

Rachel hadn't wanted to sleep on the five-hour drive south, but Ethan had insisted.

Now, yawning and waking, the morning sun pierced through the windshield, casting a glare on the dashboard as Ethan maneuvered the unmarked car along the winding road. Ethan yawned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Both were silent, the hum of the engine and the occasional thump of tires over a seam in the pavement the only sounds.

"Charlie Withersnow," Rachel muttered, thumbing her phone. Her fingers danced across the screen, tapping into databases and scrolling through records. The tight lines around her eyes spoke of focus, a trait born of years sifting through the darkest parts of humanity's closet.

And what she'd found in the Ortiz' closet still echoed in her consciousness.

"Got something?" Ethan leaned in, his gaze flickering between her phone and the road ahead.

"More than just something." Her voice was even, devoid of surprise. "Armed robbery. Assault charge. And that's what's been filed."

"Charming resume," Ethan quipped, but his light tone didn't mask the concern etching deeper into his features.

"Seems our friend Charlie likes trouble. Looks like he hit a gas station late at night, few years back. Took the cash and left the attendant with a broken nose." Rachel's voice was impersonal, detached as she recited the details from Charlie's arrest report. "Cops found him a few blocks away, high as a kite and grinning like an idiot. Seems he didn't resist arrest."

"Sounds like a real prince," Ethan grumbled, steering the car onto a gravel driveway that ended abruptly at an imposing wooden structure.

The halfway house loomed ahead, an unassuming beast of knotted wood and sunlight-dappled stone. It harbored men like Charlie, giving them a second chance to reintegrate into society—or so it promised.

The car rolled to a stop, gravel crunching beneath its weight. Rachel's hand was already on the door handle before the engine's rattle died. She stepped out, Ethan close behind, both squinting in the harsh morning light.

"Place looks dead," Ethan commented, scanning the drab exterior of the halfway house.

"Let's hope it's just appearances," Rachel replied, approaching the weathered front door. Her knock was firm, echoing hollowly against the silence that hung over the small, southern Texas town like a shroud.

Seconds stretched into a small eternity. Then the door creaked open. A mountain of a man filled the frame, his bulk casting a shadow that fell cold across Rachel's face. His eyes—deep-set and unreadable—fixed on her, unblinking.

She took a step back, cast in the shadow of the giant in the door.

His shoulders were so wide, he almost had to turn sideways to fit through, and a scattering of intricate tattoos were inked into the taut skin of his exposed arms, each symbol etched with primordial stories from forgotten tribes. His square cut jaw was peppered with a thick stubble that matched the grizzled hair, pulled into a tight ponytail at the back of his head. Cuts and bruises mottled his toughened knuckles—signs of a brawling life, maybe, or clues to more recent struggles. His shirt hung loose on his barrel-like chest, an old flannel plaid, stretched thin over the layers of solid muscle.

The jarring juxtaposition of traditional Native attire and modern ruggedness looked entirely natural on him, telling tales of an individual trapped between two worlds, a notion Rachel was not unfamiliar with. His imposing physique was all the more intimidating given Rachel's slighter frame, and even Ethan seemed dwarfed by this enormous figure.

But what caught Rachel's attention, what made her heart pound and her blood rush with anticipation, were the beads.

Intricately handcrafted turquoise, they hung around his neck, striking against his dark sun-beaten skin—they clinked softly as he shuffled his feet. Beaded bracelets adorned his wrists, rattling in time with every movement, while an eagle feather was tucked behind his ear, just peeking out from beneath the cascade of raven-black hair.

She blinked, staring at the giant.

But he just stared back, a moment of silence passing between them where a coyote cried in the distant darkness.

"Charlie Withersnow. Is he here?" Rachel's voice cut the tension, but the giant didn't budge, standing still and silent as the grave.

Rachel frowned, her patience waning. "We need to speak with Charlie Withersnow." Her tone sharpened slightly, but the giant remained unresponsive, brooding in his silence. He glanced at Ethan then back at Rachel, his gaze like ice.

Then footsteps echoed from inside the house, followed by a new presence squeezing past the silent sentinel blocking the door. A slender man, his hair a halo of sun-bleached blonde and his eyes as blue as a cloudless Texas sky appeared. He was diminutive next to the giant but carried a sense of authority that softened the tension in the air.

"Can I help you, officers?" He asked, brushing invisible dust off his immaculate silk shirt. His fingers wore an assortment of shimmering rings, and his wrists clinked with gold bracelets as he moved. His smile was luminous, almost charming, if not for the predatory glint in his eyes

"Sir, we need to talk to Charlie," Ethan tried, his words more diplomatic but no less insistent.

"Good morning! I'm Gabriel." This new man's handshake was eager, his head tilt curious. "Sorry about Big Joe here; he's not much for talking."

"Charlie Withersnow," Rachel interjected before pleasantries could waste more time. "We're looking for him."

Gabriel's smile faltered, then recovered. "Ah, Charlie. I'm afraid he's been gone a while now. Three weeks, to be precise. Disappeared one night without a word. We filed a report and everything."

"Any idea where he went?" Ethan asked.

"None at all," Gabriel answered, but Rachel caught the brief flicker of something in his eyes before he turned, gesturing for them to follow inside.

Rachel narrowed her eyes. "You have no idea where Charlie might be?"

"None whatsoever," Gabriel replied, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. His gaze darted between them, too quick to read.

"Mind if we take a look at his room?" she asked, her tone even but firm.

"Of course!" Gabriel clapped his hands together as if delighted by the request. "Right this way." His voice was light, almost sing-song, as he spun on his heel and led them through the narrow hallway.

Rachel followed, a skeptical glance thrown over her shoulder at Big Joe who trailed silently behind. His presence felt like an unspoken warning.

The staircase creaked under their weight. Gabriel's chatter filled the air, questions about their journey, the weather, anything to fill the silence. Rachel answered in monosyllables, her focus elsewhere.

They reached the top floor, and the hallway stretched out, doors lining either side in a typical hotel lineup. Gabriel stopped at one, pushing it open with a flourish. "Charlie's room."

Inside, the air was stale. Dust motes floated lazily in the slanting sunlight. Rachel stepped in, Ethan close behind. She scanned the room, noting its sparse furnishings—a bed, a dresser, a small desk—all coated in a fine layer of neglect.

"Take your time," Gabriel said from the doorway, his arms folded. "I'll just be downstairs if you need me."

"Thanks," Rachel muttered, already moving toward the closet. Empty hangers clinked together. No clothes, no shoes. She turned to the dresser next, rifling through drawers holding nothing but old receipts and crumpled papers.

Ethan knelt, inspecting the desk. Routine thoroughness paired with practiced movements. Rachel moved to the bed, crouching to peer beneath it. Then, something caught her eye—a slight unevenness in the floorboards near the foot of the bed.

She glanced back at the door. Big Joe's shadow loomed, his watchful gaze unyielding. She met it with a defiant lift of her chin before turning her attention back to the floor.

Using the edge of her badge, she pried at the board. It gave way with a soft creak, revealing a hollow space beneath. Inside, two glass bongs lay alongside a wad of bills, bound by a rubber band.

"Found something," she called to Ethan without looking up, her fingers carefully extracting the cash.

"Drugs?" Ethan's voice carried a note of disappointment, not surprise.

"Drugs and money," she affirmed, feeling the crisp bills between her fingers. "Why would Charlie leave this behind?"

"Good question," Ethan said, standing to join her. "Maybe he bolted. The murders..." Ethan trailed off, his eyes scanning the room.

"Could be," she mused, but her gut twisted with doubt. A wallet on the dresser, photos still tucked inside—Charlie hadn't planned to vanish.

"Keep looking," she instructed, her tone clipped. "There's more here."

Charlie had left in a hurry… or he'd left intending to come back. Maybe even knowing he would.

So what had happened?

Had he not intended to start the murder spree? Had he snapped?

What had happened back at Miguel Ortiz and Lucy Thompson's spacious home? Why had their corpses been found upstairs, mutilated beyond belief?

She paused, phone pulled. She sent a quick text message to the coroner. "Need a rush on that report. Asap." And Rachel shook her head, lowering her phone as she glanced around the room a final time.

Turning towards the door, intent on confronting the giant Native man again, Rachel stepped away from the bed. The man's silent vigilance nagged at her; he knew something. She was sure of it.

"Big Joe," she started as she approached the doorway.

He shifted, a wall of muscle and sinew. No words, just the clear message—stay back.

"Listen," Rachel tried, steadying her voice, "I need to—"

His eyes flared in dark pools of warning as Big Joe let out a blast of air through his nose like a bull's snort. And like a bull, Rachel got the distinct impression it was the man's way of warning her: stop, or there's going to be trouble.

"What's your problem?" Rachel shot back, her tone biting and defiant. "I'm just looking for Charlie."

The tall man's eyes narrowed and in a thick, rumbling voice he murmured, "He's gone." It was the first complete sentence he'd uttered since they'd arrived, but it didn't feel like progress to Rachel.

"Where did he go?" she asked, her eyes never leaving his.

"He was making money," the giant replied cryptically, looking away.

"How so?" Rachel probed, her patience thinning.

Big Joe's gaze met hers again, filled with defiance and a smoky hue of resentment. His lips tightened into a grim line, but he didn't reply. This sudden silence stretched out between them.

"Don't like cops," he muttered.

"I'm a Ranger."

"Don't like them, either."

"Nobody asked you to like me," she fired back, her tone icy.

Big Joe's glare intensified, his frown deepening into a scowl.

Rachel stood her ground, answering the silent challenge. "I'm not leaving. Not until I know what happened to Charlie."

Big Joe's nostrils flared, a low growl emanating from his chest. "Making money," he repeated, his voice a rumbling echo in the hallway.

"And how was he making it?" She persisted. "Legal or illegal?"

The giant didn't answer, but something flickered across his face—anger, defiance, maybe fear. His gaze fell on the badge pinned to her belt. "Doesn't matter." He said, words barked out like they tasted sour.

"Oh, but it does." She retorted sharply.

Rachel squared her shoulders, facing the silent monolith of a man. "Charlie," she demanded, her voice sharp as flint. "Where is he?"

"Making money," Big Joe repeated, his arms crossing over his chest like iron bars. "Angry."

"Angry at who? Why?" Rachel leaned in, trying to pierce the veil of his stoic facade.

He met her probing gaze with a stone-faced glare, the lines around his eyes deepening, but offered no further explanation.

He took a few steps back into the hall towards a wooden railing by the stairs. He peered down into the room below as if looking for backup.

She followed.

"Look," Rachel's patience frayed like old rope, "You can talk to me, or you can talk to the feds when they swarm this place." Ethan would've said it nice. Would've packaged it with copious amounts of congenial. But she wasn't Ethan. She watched his jaw tense, the threat hanging between them like a swung punch.

"Prison," she pushed, raising the stakes. "You know what an accessory is? I'm sure you've heard the term ‘accessory after the fact'. That's going to be you if you don't start talking. Cooperate or prison. It's that simple."

The word 'prison' was the flint that struck fire in Big Joe's belly. He erupted, a bellowing force, words thundering out. "You don't scare me!"

"Yes. I do." Rachel said flatly, her dark eyes narrowing as she stared up at the blustering mountain of muscle with the unflinching confidence of a woman who had stared down mountain lions and bears. Inwardly, her heart hammered against her ribs, but she kept her voice level. She didn't know if Big Joe could ‘smell her fear' the way a wolf could. But the key in either case was to show no sign of retreat, no flicker of doubt.

"We're just trying to find Charlie," Ethan interjected, his hands raising as he tried to dial back the tension.

And in that split-second shift of her focus, Big Joe moved—fast for his size. His massive hand clamped around Rachel's arm like a bear trap, his other hand shoving her shoulder with brute force, sending tumbling towards the stairs, pitching her over the wooden rail.

And then, she was falling.