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    Wildburn (A Whicher Series Novella): The Whicher Series
    Wildburn (A Whicher Series Novella): The Whicher Series
    Wildburn (A Whicher Series Novella): The Whicher Series
    Ebook140 pages2 hours

    Wildburn (A Whicher Series Novella): The Whicher Series

    By John Stonehouse

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    About this ebook

    Wild fire smolders in the drought-hit plains of Texas. Juanita Jones has skipped bail, missed a court appearance – before she can turn herself in, she’s mixed up in a full-blown murder.

    US Marshal John Whicher has his own reasons for finding her – and proving her innocence. But where there's smoke is there always fire? Can anything stand in the path of a wildburn?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJohn Stonehouse
    Release dateDec 21, 2016
    ISBN9781386003694
    Wildburn (A Whicher Series Novella): The Whicher Series
    Author

    John Stonehouse

    John Stonehouse is a writer who's spent a lot of time traveling, both in the states and overseas. Interested in history, literature, music and poetry he's drawn to wide-open spaces; places few people go, inside or out. His debut novel, An American Outlaw, gained widespread acclaim - earning a place among 50 'successors to the greats' in contemporary crime fiction. (forensicoutreach.com)  Both it, and the follow up, An American Kill, went on to become bestsellers at Amazon, Apple i-Books, Barnes & Noble and at Kobo.  The latest in the series, An American Bullet, is out now. Also available is Wildburn, (a Whicher Series novella).

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      Book preview

      Wildburn (A Whicher Series Novella) - John Stonehouse

      Chapter One

      Motley County, TX.

      Heat stacks above the Rolling Plains—the buffalo grass baked to tinder by a summer-long drought. Deputy US Marshal John Whicher pulls off the highway in his Chevy Silverado. The truck rolls to a halt in the dust at the side of the road.

      He lowers his window.

      In the air is the catch of burning. He sees a trail of smoke—a line of fire at the distant horizon. It's late afternoon—the wind strong, scouring the plains land, battering the sides of the truck.

      By the road is a rust-flecked name-plate, mounted on a tube steel pole. Torero, the sign reads. Population 509.

      Ninety miles north-east of Lubbock—Whicher sits behind the wheel of the Chevy, staring out of the dirt-streaked windshield. Dead men wait.

      Torero.

      A small town. A ranch community from the nineteen-thirties.

      Years back, he'd ridden through in his father's car.

      He slips his boot off the brake, hits the blinker, turns from the highway onto an asphalt strip.

      Overgrown lots are filled with shinnery oak—to the south the land is choked with prickly pear and honey mesquite. The marshal pictures the town beyond the scattering of trees; one set of stop-lights, a crossroad, a single main street.

      He steers past the few lived-in properties among the unsold lots—sees a Motley County Sheriff's cruiser parked in front of a one-floor house.

      An ambulance is alongside the cruiser, high-gloss sides reflecting a lowering sun.

      Whicher slows the Silverado, pulls over, cuts the motor.

      In the front yard of the house an officer in tan uniform surveys the road.

      Whicher glances in the rear-view mirror, runs a hand through his head of dark hair. Steady eyes look back at him—hazel, wide-set, above a broken nose. He feels for the hat on the passenger seat—picks up the dark felt Resistol, places it on his head.

      He steps from his truck, tilts the brim of the hat forward. The afternoon heat is fierce, despite the gusting wind.

      A late September sky is leaching color. The marshal buttons the jacket of his charcoal suit.

      Around the house, the neighboring properties are set well away—surrounded with big yards, cars and trucks beneath the shade of Texas live oak.

      By a black willow, a woman watches, wearing a faded cotton dress.

      The uniformed sheriff's deputy adjusts his Western hat. He starts down toward the edge of the yard.

      Whicher straightens his neck-tie, takes out his badge and ID. He turns to the woman. Ma'am.

      Graying hair frames her sun-brown face, her arms are folded. She nods, features barely moving—studying, the big man in the suit and hat—the busted nose—the bulge of a gun beneath the jacket.

      The sheriff's deputy checks the marshal's badge. He's raw-boned, thin as a pole. Sheriff don't want nobody coming in here. He jerks his head over his shoulder.

      Whicher reads the name on the man's shirt—Deputy Skilling. I need to talk to him. Can you ask him to come on out?

      The deputy turns, strides back toward the house.

      Whicher puts away his ID.

      I heard it, the woman says. This morning. I heard the shot.

      The marshal glances at her. You tell that to the sheriff?

      Her eyes are rounded. I told him. She takes a pace closer from beneath the shade of the willow tree. I didn't know it was any gun shot, at the time. I live out back. Where the lane makes a loop. She takes a hand from her elbow, pointing.

      From the corner of his eye Whicher sees Deputy Skilling walking around the side of the property.

      An older man is with him, short, squat, wearing the same tan uniform and hat. He stares down the yard. I'm Sheriff McCoy.

      US Marshals Service. Y'all have a minute, I'd like to talk.

      The sheriff stops half way down the yard. We have a body back here. We need to move it. What's your business, marshal?

      Whicher takes a pace forward. Alright if I step on up?

      The sheriff's eyes are sharp beneath black brows, his face square, the skin etched with deep lines.

      I'm a criminal investigator, Whicher says. Looking for somebody. I had word the person might be out at this address.

      McCoy runs a knuckle against a thick eyebrow, sweat beading under his eyes.

      A woman, Whicher says. A young woman. Juanita Jones.

      Never heard of her, the sheriff says. This house is owned by a guy name of Brandon Lynch.

      Deputy Skilling turns to the neighbor.

      The woman looks back, startled.

      How about you, Miss Bonnier?

      She shakes her head, mouth tight shut.

      Whicher takes in the house—gutter hanging, board sides in need of a coat of paint. In the yard there's nothing but packed dirt and weed and burnt dry grass.

      You want to step back here a minute? the sheriff says.

      The marshal looks at him.

      Skilling hooks a thumb into his duty belt.

      McCoy turns, the deputy holds station.

      We have to go around the side, the sheriff calls over his shoulder.

      Whicher follows between a panel fence and trash containers at the side of the house.

      This here's a crime scene, I won't have any evidence disturbed.

      In the back yard, the body of a man is laying face down on the ground by the rear door of the house.

      Two paramedics wait with a gurney. A bald-headed man in a zip-suit takes a swab from a head wound on the corpse.

      The sheriff looks at Whicher. You didn't know about this?

      The marshal shakes his head.

      You were coming here anyhow?

      Whicher studies the body on the ground—a young man dressed in jeans, engineering boots, a canvas jacket—head of black hair nestled in the dirt. I heard on the radio, driving up.

      Victim was shot at the back door, the sheriff says. No sign he's been moved. Miss Bonnier, the neighbor there, says she heard something this morning.

      Whicher looks across the yard to the wood-panel fence beyond a spreading pecan tree.

      Heat radiates from the baked earth. A catch of smoke drifts in the air.

      Beyond the panel fence he can make out the roof of another house.

      Her place backs on to this, McCoy says. She heard some kind of a noise, around eight. This afternoon, she was cleaning up in her yard, raking dead leaves, she looked over the fence—she saw this.

      Have y'all identified the body?

      Tommy Ray Fallon.

      Whicher says the name over in his head—he doesn't recognize it.

      There's no sign of the owner of the property, the sheriff says. Brandon Lynch. The guy works in the oil fields. We're trying to get a hold of him now. The sheriff gestures with a thumb in the direction of the panel fence.

      Whicher follows across the dirt yard.

      Beneath the pecan tree Sheriff McCoy stops, turns. So let's hear it, he says. You're here looking for some young woman?

      Marshals Service had information she might be out here, Whicher says. She failed to show up for a court appearance, yesterday.

      The sheriff looks at Whicher, eyes searching his face. He breaks off, glares across at the body by the house. A bail skip? he says, finally. What was she arrested for?

      Possession of a controlled substance.

      The sheriff stands nodding to himself. I'll be damned.

      The marshal steps a little into his sight-line. And why's that?

      The victim here—Tommy Ray Fallon. According to his ID, he's a recovery agent. For a licensed bail bond company.

      How y'all know that?

      We found his truck, McCoy says. A Ford Ranger. Parked a little ways down the street.

      Whicher watches the man in the zip-suit take a camera from a metal-sided case. He stands, takes a pace back, raises the camera, photographing the body from above.

      My deputy there, Skilling, got to talking with the neighbors, the sheriff says. "One of 'em pointed out the vehicle, said it didn't belong. We ran the plate, opened it up. There's a bunch of bail bond company paperwork in the glove box. This

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