Murder on the Third Try: The Pastor Matt Hayden Mystery Series, #3

By K.P. Gresham

Mike Hogan, former undercover cop who worked the Miami drug scene, wakes up in an Austin, Texas, hospital ICU. Not only is he missing part of his skull, he is missing four years of memories. In those four years he learns he's become a pastor, taken a church in rural Texas, and fallen in love with the beguiling, red-headed owner of the town's local bar.At least he remembers why he's on the run in the Fed's Witness Protection Program. Howard Rutledge, former Miami Chief of Police killed Mike's father and brother, and wants Mike dead too. Mike's testimony will put Rutledge in jail for racketeering, smuggling, and murder. When Mike wakes up in that ICU, he can only assume that Rutledge has found him. Mike is helpless with a broken body and an unsettled mind. Who are his friends and who are his foes? Can he trust the kindly sheriff who has hired security to guard him? Can he trust the woman whom his soul remembers but his brain does not? Who in this unfamiliar world is his assassin? Mike Hogan must stay alive to put Rutledge away, and the hole in his head and his piecemeal memory are not going to stop him

• Language: English
• Publisher: K.P. Gresham
• Release date: Aug 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201731953

K.P. Gresham

K.P. Gresham is the award-winning author of the Pastor Matt Hayden Mystery Series as well as several stand-alone novels. Active in Sisters in Crime and the Writers League of Texas, she has won Best Novel awards from the Bay Area Writers League as well as the Mystery Writers of America. Where to Find K.P.Website: http://www.kpgresham.com/Email: [e-mail]: https://inkstainedwretches.home.blog/https://austinmysterywriters.com/Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kpgresham

Book preview

Chapter One

Where the Hell Am I?

Michael Hogan Jr. had returned to earth, that much was certain. He was pretty sure he was in a hospital bed. The buzzes and beeps around him suggested he was wired to some mighty expensive equipment, and when he tried to open his eyes he discovered a thick wrapping blocked his view. Which was fine with him. His head was spinning in waves of pain and fog, and he wanted only to go back to sleep. He had no idea what day it was, what time it was, heck, he didn’t even know how long he’d been out. He knew one thing for sure, however.

Mike Hogan had been to heaven.

Even now, he retained the feeling of being enveloped in a luminescent, pure, tangible love. A rushing fullness had encircled him, filling his eyes and ears and his mouth as if he was floating in a womb of love. He was lured to a bright light at the center of this euphoria. As he’d drawn closer he realized that the light was really a man exuding an almost blinding radiance. And then he’d seen his dad, Michael Hogan Sr., and his brother, Bryson. On earth, both were dead. Here, in this heaven, they were alive and smiling, and welcoming him to join them.

He wanted to, but something had called him back—something unfinished.

Had he told his father and brother that he loved them before turning from the light? He didn’t remember.

Now sounds began to filter through the memory, and he was curious as to where he was. People were speaking in low voices. Then he felt a covering being pulled back from his feet.

Pastor Hayden? It’s nurse Becky, a woman said. Can you move your toes for me?

How odd. She seemed to be speaking to him, but why was she calling him Pastor Hayden? His name was Mike Hogan. He felt a light slap on his foot. He was too tired for this.

The nurse spoke again, this time her voice a little louder. Now, Pastor, I know you can hear me. Just give me a little ole wiggle and everything’ll be right as rain.

Mike flexed both big toes, just to shut her up.

Now that’s jes’ fine, the woman said. Here, let me get you bundled back up snug as a bug in a rug.

‘Bug in a rug? Little ole wiggle?’ Who talked like that? As she pulled the covers back over his feet, Mike concentrated on the other voices in the room. Everyone seemed to be talking like her. Folks didn’t speak with drawls in Miami. Puerto Rican or Cuban accents maybe, and of course the nasal clip of a New England transplant. But southern drawls?

Wasn’t he still in Miami?

Is it all right with y’all if I come back in? This came from a different woman, But her drawl didn’t bother him. It soothed him.

Of course, said the nurse. I see you found the coffee machine.

A little caffeine and I’ll be right as rain. This new voice was husky and distinctly female. He remembered red hair, flowing around a beautiful, Irish face. What was her name?

The good Lord’s sure been good to your Pastor Hayden. He’s doin’ fine, the first voice said.

The plate they inserted isn’t putting too much pressure on his brain, is it?

Honey, these surgeons know exactly what they’re doing, came the reply. Your man here is in the best level one trauma center in central Texas. And he just moved his toes!

Thank God. There was a tremor in the husky voice.

Texas? What was Mike doing in Texas?

He’s going to get better now. The woman continued. Her voice still shook. Right?

Mike heard a heavy sigh, then the nurse spoke again. His brain might swell more, but that’s to be expected. The doctor explained that, remember?

So, he’s gonna get worse before he gets better?

It’s possible. But we’re watching him like hawks. We’ll know if something isn’t right. I’ll be at the desk if you need me. Mike heard the swish of a curtain and several footsteps padded away. There was a pause, then someone took his hand. Matt. It’s me, Angie.

Angie! Yes, that was it. Her voice was closer now.

I got some coffee, but I’m back now. Everyone says you’re a lucky man. The bullet took off the top of your skull, but never actually penetrated the brain. It’s a miracle you weren’t killed, Matt.

Why was she calling him Matt? Mike wondered. He was Michael Hogan Jr. It was all so confusing. But he knew Angie. And he knew he loved her.

I’m here beside you. You’re not alone, she continued. And you’re going to be okay. Now he heard a sob behind her words. You rest as long as you need to. I’ll be here.

He felt her hand on his. It was warm and soft. He wanted to move his fingers somehow to reassure her, but he was so very tired. He needed to go back to the sweet memories of heaven. Talking was too difficult; he wasn’t sure he remembered how. And the comfort of letting go was so beckoning. With great effort, he squeezed her hand, then finally gave in to the simplicity of fog that beckoned.

***

I hope to hell Chief Rutledge doesn’t answer the encrypted satellite phone he gave me to use. This is one call I don’t want to make, but I have no choice. I must tell him Hogan is still alive.

My first shot got by the pastor, but the second one—hell, if that stupid dog hadn’t started barking. That’s what made Hogan duck. I musta grazed him. But damn, there was so much blood!

I want another shot of Jameson’s but decide against it. Gotta keep my story straight. If I play it right, I don’t need to let on that Hogan might know I’m the one who shot him. It was one in the morning, but that moon was full. Which was one reason I was sure I wouldn’t miss.

Damn that dog.

The Chief cuts me a lot of slack. And he should. But this is too big for him to let slide. One way or another I’m dead if Hogan saw me.

Please God, let the man die in the hospital.

Chapter Two

A Hot Night in Texas

Bo Peveto, the Fire and Ice House bartender, surveyed the Sunday night crowd, wondering why tonight of all nights they were slammed. Wilks was a small rural town a half-hour south of Austin, and it seemed most of its residents were in the bar—which indeed used to be the town’s fire station.

They sure could’ve used Angie’s help tonight, but the bar owner was up in Austin seeing to the preacher. Well, she wouldn’t have had her mind on her work anyways. Hazmat had scrubbed and scrubbed on the church’s sidewalk, but the dark crimson stain from that gunshot wound couldn’t be erased.

And what was the church trivia team doing here? Weren’t their competitions on Tuesdays? Making matters worse, Chelsea Schneider, the floor waitress, was in a piss poor mood over some argument with her lover—whoever that might be. Her drink orders were double-stacked, waiting to be delivered to the crowded tables.

Bo secured his graying, two-foot-long pony tail with the black bandana he always wore hippie-style, then pulled another round of beer for two men at the bar. He served up the drinks, then checked the room. Looked like the trivia team’s drinks needed a refill. Where the heck was Chelsea?

He grabbed up a pitcher and rounded the bar. Well, at least the game was only taking up a four-top tonight. He wondered where the rest of the group was.

I know the answer! shouted the gas station owner, Aaron Rodriquez. Though always well groomed, the brick of a man still managed to smell like gasoline. Ulysses S. Grant!

A cheer went up from the group, and Bo figured Aaron’s answer must’ve been the right one. The trivia team’s celebration was short lived, however. Silence reigned supreme when the next question appeared on the trivia consoles.

Motown Records! Mandy Culver yelled out the next answer. She was the young blonde widow who ran Grace Lutheran’s Child Care Program and had suggested the church form a trivia team.

Rounding out the table were Warren and Ben Yeck. The brothers might as well have been twins, both in their seventies, balding and wearing their ever-present jean overalls. Folks were known to wonder whether the brothers possessed any other form of clothing.

Bo saw that the table was littered with dirty plates and empty drinks. Damn it, Chelsea. He grabbed a rectangular bus pan and headed for the table. Refills, anyone?

No one acknowledged him, however. Hands flew swiftly over the touch pads. There was a moment of suspense, then an exhalation of cheers.

We got ‘em all! Warren slapped a weathered hand on his older brother’s back.

Well done, everybody, Mandy said. One more round to go. We’ve got a five-minute break.

Anybody need refills on your drinks? Bo asked again.

The group looked up in surprise. They’d been so focused on the game they didn’t even know he was there.

Sure, Mandy said, shoving her iced tea glass his way. Any word on how the preacher’s doing?

Angie said he’s gonna get worse before he gets better. Now comes the swelling. Bo ran a quick rag over the table’s wooden top. How come y’all are playing tonight?

Tournament week, Ben answered. We’ll be here every night ’til we lose.

Who’s losing? Warren elbowed his brother. First we gotta win regionals, then state, then nationals. I’m planning on picking up that trophy in D.C. in October.

Ben smirked. You ain’t ever been out of Texas, much less back East with all them foreigners.

Bo finished filling the iced tea glasses and turned to find Chelsea, the missing waitress, sneering at him. You stealing my table? Bo figured she must’ve been waiting tables outside because her skimpy tank top was streaked with sweat. He still couldn’t figure how in the hottest July on record, she was able to keep her Cleopatra eye makeup from running.

More like helping your sorry ass, he said, then realized the church lady was listening intently. Sorry, Mandy.

The blonde smiled and waved him off. Her attention turned to the flashing screen announcing the next round was about to start.

I suppose you’re gonna expect half of that tip, Chelsea sniped.

Ignoring her, he headed back to the bar. Chelsea followed in quick pursuit.

Try it and I’ll quit, she said.

He rounded on her. His eyes blazed, but he kept his voice low. Look. I’m not happy Angie is gone either. And guess what? She’s not gonna be here until the preacher gets better. Angie was like a sister to Bo, and he knew how deeply she cared for Matt Hayden. So, get over your sorry attitude and get to work.

You think I’m upset because we’re busy? Hell, that only means more tips. There’s more important things in my life than this stupid bar, you know. She looked at the pass-through window and saw her last two food orders were still on the wire. Damn. She pushed through the swinging doors that led back to the kitchen. Dorothy Jo, have you started my— She stopped in mid-sentence. Bo! Come here quick!

Bo ran into the kitchen. His beloved friend, the Ice House’s old cook, lay on the floor beside the fryer, passed out cold. Call 911, Bo ordered, but Chelsea was running out of the kitchen. Where are you going? he demanded.

Mandy Culver. She knows CPR!

Bo turned his attention back to Dorothy Jo. The short, gray-haired woman was the closest thing he had to a mother. He choked back panic as he checked her pulse. It was weak but steady. Heartened, he looked her up and down for injury. No blood. No burns.

Chelsea burst through the kitchen doors with Mandy in quick pursuit. Call 911, the church lady ordered, taking control. She checked Dorothy Jo’s breathing, then her pulse. She’s not sweating, she said and looked around the kitchen. It’s hot as Hades in here.

***

Sheriff James W. Novak stood at the curtain delineating Matt’s area in ICU. The preacher looked the same as he had for the last three days—still out cold, still bruised beyond recognition and still hooked up to every machine known to man. James W.’s half-sister, Angie, slept in the chair next to the bed. Thank God. Angie had been by Matt’s side since he’d been shot last Wednesday night.

Before James W. had learned Angie and he were related, he’d considered Angie a beautiful woman. Lots of curves and full, thick, red hair. Now that he’d discovered she was his sister, however, those thoughts were a thing of the past. He still considered her feisty, though, and still couldn’t figure how the town’s reputed angel by day, devil by night and the preacher had hooked up.

She opened her eyes, causing him to think she’d only been dozing. James W., she said. What’re you doing here in Austin?

Finished my meet with the Texas Rangers. Thought I’d stop by and see if there’s anything you need before I go back to Wilks. He took off his sheriff’s hat and rubbed his hand through the stubble of his graying, burred hair. You haven’t been home since Matt got shot.

She rubbed the muscles at her neck. Let me think on it. She shook out a kink. Get everything wrapped up with the Rangers?

No, but he didn’t want to tell her that. Angie believed an aggrieved church member had shot Matt before turning the gun on himself. Lingering questions about forensic evidence would only worry her. Still have to dot all the i’s.

Angie stood, and stretched. I could use a cup of coffee. You game?

Sure.

She slung her purse over her shoulder, and they walked out of ICU. What i’s need to be dotted?

Ballistics. James W. shrugged, trying to pass off the issue as routine. Blood work. You know the drill.

Okay, she said, and he was relieved she didn’t press. Vending’s this way.

I’m buying. James W. fished coins out of his pocket. How’s Matt?

In stable condition, which I guess is good. They don’t expect him to wake up for a couple of days. Too much trauma to the brain.

James W. fed his coins into the machine. Black? he asked.

Of course.

He handed her the cup then tossed in more coins. His fingers paused over the add-ins selection. Yeah, his shirts were fitting a bit snug around his barreled chest, and his gun harness was on its last hole, but after the day he’d had, he needed the comfort. As he punched the button for double extra sugar, Angie’s phone buzzed.

It’s the Ice House, she said, looking at the number. Hey, Bo. What’s up? Her brow furrowed. When? She shot James W. a look, and he could tell the news was bad. Where is she now? She mouthed the words, Dorothy Jo passed out, and he nodded. Dorothy Jo, Bo and Angie were a family unto themselves.

No, I appreciate the call. Yeah, close the kitchen down. Folks’ll understand. Yeah. I can hear you’re busy. Thanks for telling me. She hung up the phone and turned to her brother. Dorothy Jo’s in Wilks Medical Clinic. They think it’s heat exhaustion, but they’re keeping her there overnight to make sure.

James W. swallowed hard. You want me to take you home?

She nodded. I’ll go tell the nurse.

Damn, James W. muttered when she was out of earshot. The last thing he wanted right now was to leave Matt Hayden unprotected. The Texas Rangers had been firm today. The forensic evidence coming back from the lab showed it was highly unlikely the disgruntled church member had been the preacher’s shooter.

Matt was still alive, and so was his assassin.

Chapter Three

The Investigation Begins. Finally.

A piercing squeak drilled through Mike Hogan’s oblivion, the insistent noise pulling him from the safe cocoon of blackness. As he focused, he recognized the sound of a wheel that needed oiling on some sort of cart. Suddenly he realized he was on the cart and moving through a tunnel of voices and machines. Dizziness overwhelmed him, and, without warning, he gagged.

Stop, came the order from a stern male voice.

At the sudden halt, the contents of his head did a somersault, and this time spittle launched from his mouth.

Pastor Hayden, the man said. It’s all right. We’re almost there.

There? Where? Speech was impossible, but Mike managed a groan in response. He tried to open his eyes, then realized they were swollen shut. What the hell?

Where was the woman? He couldn’t remember her name. Couldn’t remember what she looked like. But he remembered her presence and that he felt safe with her. Where had she gone?

There was more noise now. He felt the forward motion of the cart start up again, and his head spun, seemingly caught in a tornado. Panic rose from somewhere deep inside him. What the hell had happened to him? The cart he was on made a sudden turn, and he vomited.

Pastor Hayden, I’m nurse Joanne Frugoni. A female voice this time, but still the wrong one. He jerked away when something touched his cheek, but calmed a little when he realized it was a towel, wiping the puke off his face.

You’ve been moved to Neuro PCU, the nurse continued. We take care of head traumas here. I understand you’re dizzy. It’s all right. We’re giving you some anti-nausea medicine in your IV.

There were others in the room, he realized. He heard footsteps and bumps and wheels squeaking. The woman who had spoken to him was giving orders as to where to put various items in the room. He willed himself to breath evenly despite the cacophony of sounds around him.

After what seemed like forever, the dizziness and nausea began to subside. Finally he felt strong enough to attempt speech. Where is she? he gutted out.

The nurse understood his question. She had to go back home. One of her employees became ill. I got her phone number from the ICU staff. I’ll let her know we’ve moved you, Pastor Hayden.

There it was again. Pastor Hayden. He was Mike Hogan, undercover cop on the drug-infested docks of Miami. No, wait a minute. Not anymore.

A flurry of memories—some barely formed, others too real—flashed through his mind. He’d been on the docks, a drug bust. His father, the detective in charge of the bust, lying on the pier, blood pouring from his chest. His father’s funeral. Police Chief Rutledge leading the honor guard. A conversation Mike hadn’t been meant to hear. Rutledge’s brag about taking out the traitor, Mike’s father.

Pastor, you need to calm down, said the nurse. Take deep breaths. When the doctor gets here, I’ll call Angie, all right?

Angie, Mike thought. He didn’t remember her exactly, but he remembered the effect of her presence. Security. Tranquility. And something deeper. Affection? Was she in the Witness Protection Program with him?

That’s right, Pastor. Slow and easy, the nurse said softly. Here’s Dr. Ryan now.

***

Frustrated, Sheriff James W. Novak put down the phone receiver and carried his morning coffee to his second story office window. The call from the Rangers had confirmed his worst fears. The question was, how was he going to find the perp with the investigation four days cold?

James W. watched the people of Wilks go about their Monday routines. The day was another scorcher, only one of many in this record-breaking inferno of a Texas summer. Folks stuck to the shaded side of the town square to run their errands. Birds flocked to the WWII Memorial’s fountain under the cooling branches of the huge oak Muster Tree for respite. Shadow, Angie’s dog, was sprawled on the cement sidewalk fronting her Fire and Ice House across the square. Drivers in line for gas at the Sinclair station across the street waited for a shaded slot under the aluminum awning before getting out to fill their tanks.

Was one them the assassin? He shook his head. Standing here at a window wasn’t going to get him any answers. He grabbed up his hat from its hook next to his weapons strap and opened the door to the pit—the scattering of desks, file cabinets and computers where his deputies filed their reports and worked their cases

His secretary, Sarah Fullenweider, a still-attractive, forty-year-old blonde, looked up from her desk outside his office. You don’t look happy, she observed.

James W. twirled his hat in his hands. Wilks is a good town. Good people.

Absolutely. She quirked her head. What’s wrong?

I’m about as confused as a goat on Astro Turf. He slapped his khaki hat on his large head. I’m goin’ over to Angie’s.

She’s back from the hospital?

Dorothy Jo got sick last night. He’d already checked on the elderly cook’s condition this morning, and she was doing fine. They’d released her to go home and rest. Angie came back with me to help Bo out.

All right. I’ll know where to find you.

James W. headed down the stairs and out into the staggering heat. He’d lived all his sixty years in this town and should be used to the hot summers, but even he had to agree this year’s heat was off the charts. Making sure he stayed beneath the shade of the square’s Muster Tree, he waved at Aaron, the new owner of the Sinclair Station, then crossed Mason Street to Angie’s Fire and Ice House.

He walked in and took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the cool, dark interior. Angie? She wasn’t behind the bar on his left or working the booths and tables to the right. He looked past the eating area to the room filled with pool tables and video games. Angie?

In the kitchen! came her holler from behind the swinging bar doors.

He found her chopping onions. You’re looking better, he said. His half-sister was also half his age. Their father, Cash Novak, had been a scoundrel for sure, but James W. wasn’t a bit upset to learn the town’s Ice House owner and he had been sired by the same man. He’d always liked Angie.

She didn’t look up. What’re you doin’ here on this fine, hotter than hell morning?

Jes’ stopping by.

I’m glad you did. I wanted to thank you for bringing me home last night.

I heard they released Dorothy Jo this morning.

Yep. But she’s under doctor’s orders to stay in bed for a couple of days. The heat got to her.

Any word on Matt?

She smiled. I called first thing this morning and told them I’d come up as soon as Dorothy Jo was back on her feet. Her expression darkened. Unless he gets worse, of course.

Matt’s a strong man, Angie. He’s gonna make it through just fine.

She sighed as she went back to chopping the onions. That’s what I keep telling myself.

Well, he’d stalled long enough. Time to get to work. You gotta minute? he asked.

She dumped the onions into a plastic container and covered it in Saran Wrap. Sure. What’s up?

He nodded toward the back porch. Let’s go outside. I know it’s hot, but I need you to point some things out to me.

They walked through the bar, past the booths that delineated the lounge from the sports area and out the double French doors that led to the new porch. The Colorado River, or what was left of it after the summer’s drought, bordered the Ice House property. Across the river was Grace Lutheran Church, a steepled, limestone building that had stood on the site for over seventy years. The parsonage where Matt lived was at the back of the property, separated from the church proper by a row of hedges.

James W. pulled a notebook and pen from his uniform pocket.

Is this an official visit of some kind? she asked.

Well, I never did get a statement on the record from you about what happened Wednesday night. He removed his sheriff’s hat, slung it over a railing post and nodded toward the table and chairs that were in full shade.

Angie sat down and studied him. You don’t look happy.

By the time he was done talking with her, she wasn’t going to look happy either, he thought. Tell me everything you remember about the shooting. James W. lowered himself into the chair, hoping it would hold his heft.

Her eyes wary, Angie started in. That was the night of the grass fire north of town. While you were out on that call, Matt came over here. It was a slow night. I was able to close up before one a.m.

James W. nodded. I had to make sure the fire was under control. In this drought and this heat, we could’ve had another Bastrop wild fire on our hands.

Then you called, and Matt left to join up with you to go arrest Zach Gibbons for the murder of those two girls. Matt walked across the bridge toward the parsonage, and me and Shadow headed upstairs. She nodded to the outdoor stairway that led from the Ice House porch to the landing of her second-floor apartment. It was a full moon, so I could see across the river pretty good. Matt had already passed the church and was on his way back to the parsonage. He turned around and waved at me.

James W. scribbled notes on the small pad.

Then Shadow got all excited about something. He started barking something fierce. He actually nipped me. I was trying to get him under control when I heard two shots.

Two shots? You sure? James W. asked. When she nodded, he went back to writing. Go on.

I looked across the river to where Matt had waved to me only a second before. He was sprawled on the sidewalk. Even from across the river I could tell there was a puddle of something black starting to spread beneath him.

Did you see anybody? Hear anybody?

She thought for a moment. I didn’t see anyone.

But you heard someone? he pressed.

She nodded slowly. When I was running across the bridge to get to Matt I heard footsteps, and then Aaron came running from the Sinclair Station.

So, you heard Aaron running across the street.

At that, Angie stopped. No, actually. She stood and went to the railing for a closer look at the bridge and parking lot. Aaron was behind me. The footsteps I heard were up ahead of me—running away from me.

Angie and James W. looked at each other, acknowledging that didn’t make sense. She pointed across the river. The footsteps came from the parking lot in front of the church.

But Matt’s shooting took place behind the church on the sidewalk leading to the parsonage. James W. stood to get a better look. That must be at least thirty yards away. The shooter was a fast runner.

What difference does that make? Zach’s dead.

James W. turned and looked her straight in the eye. I’m sorry, honey. Ballistics say the gun powder residue on Zach’s hand was all wrong. They were partial at best. Zach’s palm didn’t have the pattern that he ever fired one full shot, much less three. The Rangers don’t think Zach even shot himself—but someone sure tried to make it look like he did.

That’s impossible, she whispered, but James W. could see the doubt written in her wide, frightened gaze.

To boot, we got the blood tests back on Zach this morning. He had a blood alcohol reading of .268. A man with that much liquor in him ain’t going to run away from a crime scene, much less shoot a target thirty feet away in the head.

But who—? She teetered where she stood, and James W. shot out a hand to steady her.

He lowered his voice. Honey, we both knew the preacher was running from something. I’m afraid whatever he’s running from might’ve found him.

The battle taking place across Angie’s face told James W. she had something more to say. Finally, she looked up at him. He’s in the Fed’s Witness Protection Program, James W. If Zach didn’t shoot him— A tear spilled down her cheek. "You might be right about the