Larger Than Life by Alison Kent (bill gates books recommendations .TXT) 📗

American flag or John Deere logo. This one wore an intricate tribal design, a series of angles and arches, circles and swirls that cupped the base of his skull and his neck.

He also wore combat boots instead of Lucchese's, camouflage fatigues instead of Wranglers. And the sunglasses caught up with a sport strap around his neck were Oakleys and cost two hundred dollars at least. She could see him in Houston's Montrose. In L.A. or Soho. On a Calvin Klein billboard hawking boxer briefs.

She reached over, the sweat running down her spine an uncomfortable tickle, and notched up the blower on the AC. The man wrapped like King Tut in the bed of her truck was as indigenous as she was to the counties encompassing U.S. Highway 62 between New Mexico and Texas.

And she couldn't help but wonder if the business that brought him here went as far underground as did hers. Or if he posed a more personal threat and was here to put an end to what she'd been doing the last five years.

All she knew for sure was that any man hoping to take her down would have to take her out in order to succeed. And wasn't that a comforting thought?

Two

Holden Wagner took a seat in the single visitor's chair occupying the office of County Sheriff Yancey Munroe and settled back to wait. Munroe had sworn he wouldn't be but a minute. A minute which meant nothing, as Holden well knew, in the West Texas way of telling time.

An Ivy League education. An Oxford law degree. And after a rather illustrious career during which he'd made a name defending the religious expression guaranteed by the First Amendment, he'd taken up a new cause—and taken himself off the radar—seven years ago and twenty miles west of the county seat of Pit Stop in a place called Earnestine Township.

Earnestine Township. A community of four thousand, faith-based and inclusive, where polygamist unions and arranged marriages formed two sides of the same coin funding the residents' religious beliefs. Where libel and slander lawsuits filed against militant nonbelievers were instrumental in funding the city's coffers. Where sales and property taxes funded very little at all since the populace believed in austerity, tithing times three, and the church was tax exempt.

He shook his head, breathed deeply, pinched the crease in the knee of his Armani suit pants. Armani in the land of denim, dungarees, and what outsiders considered debauchery. His position as the township's attorney wasn't solely about turning away suspicion of child abuse, welfare fraud, and incest, but was also about guaranteeing the freedom of the religion the population so ardently embraced.

Freedom from naysayers, yes, but from interlopers, too— both in the form of antipolygamist activists, former church members, anxious residents of neighboring communities, and public discontent. To former colleagues, his career move was a long slide down the legal ladder into a murky swill. For Holden, it was a solution, a compromise, a penance— one reminding him who he was. And who he wasn't. What he was. And what he wasn't.

But most of all, what he had—and hadn't—done. And the only thing he could do now.

Sitting in an industrial office, staring at certificates mounted in black document frames, at windows treated with Venetian blinds, at a wood grain rubber waste can overflowing with stained Styrofoam coffee cups, did not reflect on his worth or his abilities. Neither did the fact that he upheld the rights of middle-aged men to take young girls to wife reflect on his proclivities or his moral beliefs.

It did, however, reflect on the resolve and intent that had driven him since the age of eighteen when he'd watched his parents die for their zeal as much as their sins. Coming here today represented a sacrifice allowing him to continue his practice, his success, and most importantly, his life. With all he'd endured, all he'd forfeited, he would not go quietly into any good night.

"Sorry for the delay, Wagner." The sheriff entered the room and closed the door. Holden heard it latch, heard the thud of boots on the speckled linoleum as Munroe rounded the metal desk freshly painted a color more toast than taupe. "Had a bit of an emergency out at the Bremmer place over by Earnestine. Seems Radford's son, Jase—you might know him? He plays football. Halfback? At Earnestine High?— he's been gone for a week and the old man just snapped to the fact. Thought the boy was staying with friends."

Fighting a choking sensation made Holden doubly glad he'd decided to forgo wearing a tie. "Not a problem, Sheriff."

"Good. Now, what can I do you for?" Yancey Munroe was a tall man of Scandinavian descent, lean but for a stomach that spoke of his love of beer. He was equally fond of his gun.

Holden uncrossed and recrossed his legs, used the delay to regain his composure. "Actually, the Bremmer boy may be tied to the disappearance of my client's daughter, Liberty Mitchell. I understand from talking to her classmates that the two were dating."

After a moment, Munroe sat, his expensive ergonomic chair at odds with the rest of the room's furnishings. "You're here about a missing girl, then."

The obvious. So eloquently and redundantly stated. Hands laced in his lap, Holden met the other man's gaze squarely and refused to release it. "Yes. Liberty Mitchell. A student at Earnestine High reported to have been dating Jase Bremmer."

The sheriff shook his head. "The office hasn't heard a word. Meaning no report has been filed. Is that what you're here to do? On behalf of your client?"

"The family isn't yet ready to make this official." Holden's shortness of breath returned. But this time it was about closing in, about the thrill of the hunt. "They're quite sure they know where she is."

"That so?" Munroe sat back, laced his hands behind his head. His khaki uniform was clean and pressed but depress-ingly dull and faded. "I'm guessing then that your being here means