Chapter 2 - The Envelope Under the TableThe envelope was thicker than it looked.
I opened it at the kitchen counter while Hayes stood near the window.
Luke and Ben were upstairs.
I had sent them to pack away their fishing gear and get ready for dinner.
Inside the envelope were three photographs.
The first showed my ranch house from the road.
The second showed the eastern creek.
The third showed the old barn.
I recognized the dates printed on each image.
They had all been taken within the last three weeks.
Hayes studied them.
“Whoever took these was close.”
I turned the third picture over.
There was writing on the back.
Phase One is complete.
I stared at it.
“What phase?”
Hayes shook his head.
“I don't know.”
I placed the pictures on the counter.
“What does this have to do with the party?”
“Maybe nothing.”
“You don't believe that.”
“No.”
He pointed at the first picture.
“Frank, someone has been watching your property.”
“Why?”
“That is the question.”
I sat down.
For eighteen years, I had never thought of the ranch as anything more than land.
It was where my wife and I had raised our boys before she died.
Where I taught them to ride.
Where I buried our old dog beneath the cottonwoods.
Where every winter seemed to test whether we were stubborn enough to stay.
Nobody had ever offered me serious money for it.
Until eight months earlier.
A developer from Casper had approached me about buying the ranch.
I said no.
Three weeks later, another company called.
I said no again.
The third offer was ridiculous.
Nearly three times what the land was worth.
I laughed at them.
They didn't laugh back.
“You should reconsider,” the man had said.
I remembered his exact words.
“Some properties become difficult to own.”
At the time, I thought it was a threat.
Now I wasn't sure.
Hayes picked up the envelope.
“Who knows about your boundaries?”
“Everybody who has hunted around here.”
“Who has keys?”
I thought for a moment.
“Me. My sons. Used to be Dale.”
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
Hayes nodded.
“Then I'd like to talk to Dale.”
“He moved out of county.”
“Where?”
“Cheyenne.”
Hayes reached for his phone.
Before he could dial, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Hello?”
A man's voice said, “You shouldn't have called the sheriff.”
I stood.
“Who is this?”
“You know who.”
“Dale?”
Silence.
Then the man said, “You were supposed to leave tonight.”
“I own this land.”
“We know.”
I felt a coldness settle in my stomach.
Hayes raised a hand, signaling me to put the phone on speaker.
I did.
The voice continued.
“Your birthday guest was only a distraction.”
“Who are you?”
“You've been given opportunities.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“You were offered money.”
“And I refused.”
“Yes.”
The caller laughed softly.
“That's why this is taking longer.”
Hayes leaned toward the phone.
“This is Sheriff Hayes. Identify yourself.”
The line went dead.
We looked at each other.
Then the lights flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then the entire house went dark.
Ben screamed upstairs.
I grabbed a flashlight.
Hayes drew his weapon.
“Stay here,” he said.
We moved outside.
The generator behind the barn was still running.
That meant the power loss wasn't an accident.
Someone had shut off the main breaker.
Hayes went toward the electrical shed.
I followed.
The door was open.
The breaker had been switched off.
Beside it was another brown envelope.
Hayes opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
This time, it wasn't the ranch.
It was my sons.
Taken through our kitchen window.
Luke and Ben were standing at the counter.
Neither knew they were being photographed.
My blood went cold.
Hayes swore under his breath.
“How long ago?”
“Tonight.”
I looked toward the tree line.
Nothing moved.
Then I heard it.
A truck engine.
Far away.
We ran toward the driveway.
Red taillights disappeared over the ridge.
Hayes called for another unit.
I grabbed the hood of his cruiser.
“Forget the land.”
He looked at me.
“They photographed my kids.”
“I know.”
“Find them.”
“We will.”
He hesitated.
Then he said something that made my stomach drop.
“Frank, there is one more thing.”
“What?”
“We ran Dale Mercer's name.”
“And?”
“He isn't the man who rented your property.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
Hayes looked at the photograph of my boys.
“The money went to an account in Dale's name.”
“So?”
“Dale died six weeks ago.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Car accident.”
I looked toward the dark ranch house.
The windows were black.
The property felt enormous.
Empty.
And suddenly every shadow looked like a person.
Hayes lowered his voice.
“Someone has been using a dead man's identity.”
I looked down at the photograph of my sons.
Then I noticed something on the table behind them.
A folder.
One I had never seen before.
“Hayes.”
“What?”
I pointed.
“That folder wasn't there this morning.”
We rushed inside.
I opened it.
The first page was a county survey map.
The second contained water rights.
The third was an appraisal.
But the fourth page was the one that stopped me cold.
At the top, it said:
MILLER RANCH: ACQUISITION TARGET
And beneath it was a handwritten note.
May you like
Owner: Frank Miller.
Pressure Method: Family.
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