McKettricks of Texas: Garrett Read Free

of ordinary cars.
    Film clips and sound bites were probably already running on the local channels.
    Turn out the lights, Garrett thought dismally. The party’s over.
    The senator not only wouldn’t be getting the presidential nomination, he’d be lucky if he wasn’t forced to resign before he’d finished his current term in office.
    All of which left Garrett himself up Shit’s Creek, without a paddle.
    He got out of the sedan and said goodnight to Troy.
    After his friend had driven away, Garrett climbed into the Porsche.
    He made a brief stop at his town house, swapping the formal duds for jeans, a Western shirt and old boots. Once he’d changed, he could breathe a little better.
    Returning to the kitchen, he turned on the countertop TV, flipping between the networks, watching in despair as one station after another showed Senator Cox and Mandy slipping out of the ballroom, arm in arm.
    Deciding he’d seen enough, Garrett turned off the set.
    Â 
    N OW , NEARLY TWO HOURS LATER , only about a mile outside of Blue River, Garrett sped on toward home, the word fool drumming in his brain. He was stone sober, though a part of him wished he were otherwise, when the dazzle of red and blue lights splashed across his rearview mirror.
    Garrett swore under his breath, downshifted—Fifth to Fourth to Third to Second, finally rolling to a stop at the side of the road. There, without shutting off the ignition, he waited.
    He buzzed down the passenger-side window just as Brent Brogan, chief of police, was about to rap on the glass with his knuckles.
    â€œAre out of your freakin’ mind? ” his brother’s best friend demanded, bending to peer through the opening. Brogan’s badge caught a flash of moonlight. “I clocked you at almost one-twenty back there!”
    Garrett tensed his hands on the steering wheel, relaxed them without releasing his hold. “Sorry,” he said, gazing straight ahead, through the bug-splattered windshield, instead of meeting Brogan’s gaze. Tate had dubbed the chief “Denzel,” since he resembled the actor’s younger self, and used the nickname freely, especially when themoment called for a little lightening up—but Garrett wasn’t on such easy terms with Brent Brogan as his brother was.
    â€œYou’re sorry?” Brogan asked, in a mocking drawl. “Well, that’s another matter, then. Garrett McKettrick is sorry. That just makes all the difference in the world, and pardon me for pulling you over before you killed yourself or somebody else.”
    Garrett thrust out a sigh. “Write the ticket,” he said.
    â€œI ought to arrest you,” Brogan said, and he sounded like he was musing on the possibility, giving it real consideration. “That’s what I ought to do. Throw your ass in jail.”
    â€œFine,” Garrett said, resigned. “Throw me in jail.”
    Brent opened the passenger door and folded himself into the seat, keeping his right leg outside the car. He was a big man, taller than Garrett and broader through the shoulders, and that made the quarters feel a mite too close. “There’s no elbow room in this rig,” Brogan remarked. “Why don’t you get yourself a truck?”
    Garrett gave a harsh guffaw, with no humor in it. Shoved his right hand through his hair and waited, too stubborn to answer.
    It was the chief’s turn to sigh. “Look, Garrett,” he said, “I know you—you’re not drinking and you’re not high. Of all the people I might have pulled over tonight, shooting along this road like a bullet headed for the bull’s-eye, you’ve got more reason to know better than most.”
    The old ache rose inside Garrett, lodged in his throat.
    He closed his eyes, trying to block the images, but he couldn’t. He heard the screech of tires grabbing at asphalt, the grinding crash of metal careening into metal, even the ludicrously