The Last Call: A Bill Travis Mystery
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Bill Travis believes that he may not live the most exciting of lives, yet when Julie Simmons steals two million dollars from North Texas quarter horse racer and illegal liquor baron Archie Carpin, the last of a dynasty of criminals from the 1920's, thus ensues a chase across the Lone Star State to recover the money. Carpin's cohorts may seem simple-minded, yet their penchant for sniper rifles and high-explosives makes for a reckless and deadly quarry. Yet, through all this action the compelling tale of another mystery--the 80-year unclosed missing-persons file of a U.S. Marshall--begins to unravel.
advantage of folks of good will and had become a nuisance. The whispers and mumbles lasted a few minutes, Mrs. Coleeta explaining, no doubt, and Lawrence clarifying. No other voices. The conversation ceased. The hardwood floors vibrated, and I knew Lawrence was again moving through the house. Hank and I waited, but Lawrence was either intent on getting some much-needed sleep for himself or on allowing—for the moment—sleeping dogs to lie. Or both at the same time. We heard the creak of old
the phone. “Okay,” I told him. “Somehow I get the feeling that you two aren’t the best of friends.” “I don’t have any friends, Mr. Bill. All my friends are dead.” “I understand your nickname now.” “What?” “Goodbye, Jolly,” I said, and hung up. ***** I made another call. I had to wade through three different people at the Sheriff’s office until I got who I was looking for: an old friend of mine, Deputy Patrick Kinsey. “Kinsey,” he said. “Pat. This is your old friend, Bill Travis. I need
bus was due and I saw the wreckage out on the highway. There were about ten thousand little steel rings in a circle about a hundred yards in radius, the “o-rings” that were supposed to keep the gunpowder hermetically sealed. Amazingly the driver had lived through it. I remembered wondering at the time if he would ever haul dynamite or gunpowder again. If it had been me, I knew I sure as hell wouldn’t. Explosions. Storms. One or the other, or possibly both was coming, bearing down upon us with
us had lived through it, except for one thing: Hank really had known exactly what he was doing. As we rolled over the cattle-guard—the same cattle-guard where Hank and Dingo and I had stood in the pouring rain last night—I saw two Sheriff’s deputies escorting a dejected cameraman and a young reporter with a torn dress back off the property. She held a microphone that wouldn’t be seeing any action and a broken high-heel shoe. Also she wore a priceless expression. “Interesting effects you cause,”
broke. She cried like that for five minutes until her cries became sobs and even the sobs soon drew away into silence as I held her. We found ourselves looking into each other's eyes and she kissed me and I kissed her back and we were making love yet again, and I wasn’t thirty-nine but eighteen, or maybe sixteen, and our bodies and our thoughts and what we could see and touch and feel became one thing. And it wasn’t even Tuesday yet. CHAPTER THREE It was Tuesday. I usually don’t know what