A/N: I feel I should give fair warning that this story is WAY AU. I have changed the roles of all the characters and their ages, but have tried to stay true to their natures on the show. I'm just playing around with the characters and trying to show them in a different light. Also, I am not a historian. I have done some research for the story and will endeavor to be as historically accurate as I can, but I'm simply not going to obsess over a fan fiction story. So, please forgive any errors I might make (although feel free to point them out).

You should also be aware that this story will contain racist and sexist remarks appropriate to the time period. If this is going to bother you, please don't read and please, don't assume that these are my opinions. This story was somewhat inspired by the books "The Alienist" and "The Angel of Darkness" by Caleb Carr (excellent books btw, I highly recommend them).

This story will deal with the whole team, but like all my other stories, will be heavily Nick-centric.

Oh, yeah, and I don't own any of this. It all belongs to CBS and the writers of 'CSI'. Please don't sue, etc.

11/19/06

THE BUTCHER

Chapter 1

Santorelli Ranch, just outside of Dallas, Texas, early May, late 1890s.

The sun was just peeking over the eastern horizon as the three riders made their way across the pastures of the Santorelli Ranch. Thick tufts of off-white fuzz from the nearby stand of cottonwood trees floated lazily in the gentle breeze, lightly coating the ground like snow. It would have been an idyllic scene had the clear sky up ahead not been disturbed by the large, dark, ominous shape of a buzzard slowing circling.

One of the riders turned to the man riding beside him and gestured toward the carrion bird. "John..."

Looking up, the older man also saw the bird. "Oh, hell..." he groaned. Addressing the young boy who rode ahead of the two men, he said, "Franky, please tell me your father didn't shoot nobody."

The boy twisted around on his horse to look back at the two men. "No, Papa didn't shoot nobody. Just come and see."

Looking at the boy's pale, anxious face, John decided to hold his peace. They hadn't been able to get much information out of the boy when he'd first shown up at the Stokes Ranch where they were staying. He'd only said that they were needed at his father's ranch. But whatever had happened, it wasn't the boy's doing. Interrogating him was a waste of time. The three riders continued in silence until they neared the spot the boy was leading them to, directly under the area the vulture was circling.

Up ahead of them, the three could just make out Vito Santorelli, Franky's father, standing beside a large indistinct shape on the ground. As they drew closer, that shape became more defined and they could see it was a dead cow. There was a great deal of blood and, even from several yards out, the buzz of the small cloud of flies was audible.

The three riders stopped and the boy remained where he was as the two men dismounted. The horses were already becoming skittish, disturbed by the stench of the blood. Handing their reigns to the boy, the two men started toward the other man and the carcass.

"Vito, tell me you didn't drag me out of bed just to come look at a dead cow," John called out as they approached. "The Rangers deal with cattle rustlers, we don't track coyotes for you. You're on your own for that."

"No animal did this!" Vito snapped back, his Italian accent suddenly more pronounced. The tall, burly rancher looked spooked and agitated. "You come and look at this, John Preston, and you tell me that a coyote did this!"

Moving to stand beside the dead animal, John looked down and felt even his hardened stomach do an uneasy somersault. The animal wasn't just dead, it had been mutilated. The flesh from its entire head had been peeled away, leaving the bloody skull exposed. It appeared that the animal's throat had been slit first. There were no other wounds on the body. There was no tearing, no teeth marks, nothing. Clearly no animal had done this.

"What the hell..." John muttered softly.

"See, I told you," Vito said triumphantly. "Coyote didn't do this. Indians did this. I mean, who else could it be? Who else would do something so sick?"

"Now, calm down, Vito," John said, looking up at the rancher. "There ain't any Indians left around here. They've all been rounded up and put on the reservations."

"You don't know that! There could be a few rogue braves running around loose, causing havoc, killing cattle. You better do something about this! I got women to worry about!" Vito said, gesturing emphatically in the direction of his ranch house.

"All right, all right, easy now, we'll look into it, but I really don't think you or your family is in any danger. Now, we'll find the guy and we'll get him to pay you for the cost of the cow."

"Right now, I don't care about the cost. I mean, look what he did to it! That's not right! I tell you, it's a sign from God. The End of Days are coming!"

Ignoring this last comment, John glanced back down at the carcass and was amazed to see his young partner kneeling down to examine the skull closer. "Nick, what the hell are you doing, boy?"

"I just want to see how this was done," the younger man answered. "Whoever did this sure knew what he was doing. He peeled the whole hide off in one piece." Nick gestured to the discarded skin. "We should have photographs taken of this."

"What the hell for?" John asked, repulsed by the very idea of preserving this gruesome scene.

"Well my father's always saying that he wished there was some way that he and the jurors could see the crimes the defendants are charged with. If we take photographs of this, then the jurors can see what was done, instead of just hearing about it."

"Jurors? What are you talking about? Nick, it ain't a crime to kill a cow. That's what they're for."

"It's a crime when it's someone else's cow. Besides, you kill a cow for the meat or for the hide. Whoever did this, didn't care about any of that. He left it all here to rot. It's as if whoever did this, just wanted to see the cow die. And why? A cow never hurt anybody. If a man could kill something so harmless for no good reason, what else do you think he could do?"

"Yeah, well, I'm sorry, but I'm not going to drag Arthur Hayes out here to photograph a dead cow. I'd never hear the end of it."

The younger man let this go, but continued to examine the carcass. He noted that the edges of the wounds were clean, not ragged. The butcher, whoever he was, had used a very sharp knife. If Nick hadn't been disgusted with the wastefulness of the killing, he might have been impressed with the man's skill with a knife.

Looking around, the young Ranger also noted that the ground around the carcass was undisturbed. The cow must have been asleep at the time. Cows slept standing up and they were easy to sneak up on and tip over, or kill. The kill had obviously been quick and clean. The cow had simply dropped, with no lingering death throes. Yes, whoever had done this had been quite accustomed to killing.

Nick Stokes was a Texas Ranger and had grown up on a ranch. He'd seen plenty of dead cattle in his relatively short life. Hell, he'd even killed a few himself, but there was something about the whole callousness and brutality of this situation that bothered him and he wasn't entirely sure why. It wasn't the fact that the cow had been killed. It was the way it had been killed. And why had the butcher killed it in the first place, if not for the meat? And why skin its face off? The whole thing left Nick feeling slightly chilled.

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"I don't know why I told Santorelli that we'd look into this," John grumbled as he and Nick walked along the boardwalk toward the sheriff's office. "This shouldn't be our responsibility. This should be Ted's problem. Hell, we weren't even supposed to be here. You know, instead of just asking him about this, we should pass this off on him. Let him handle it. After all, it is his jurisdiction."

"Yeah, but you did tell Santorelli that we'd take care of it. Are you going to go back on your word?" Nick asked.

Personally, he was in favor of staying on the case. He was quite curious about who this person was. Besides, it wasn't as if they had anything more pressing to be working on at the present time. They had originally been on their way back to Austen, but had decided to swing through Dallas to stay with Nick's parents for a few days, as they often did when they were in the area.

"No," John reluctantly conceded. "We'll look into it, just like I promised, although I think it's a waste of our time. It's just one dead cow, for crying out loud. Just because Santorelli thinks it's the 'End of Days', doesn't mean that we should have to run around town, asking questions..."

John continued to gripe until the two men reached the office of Ted Willoughby, the sheriff of Dallas, Texas. Entering the office, they found one of Willoughby's deputies seated at a desk in the main lobby, drinking coffee and staring vacantly into space.

He was a tall, skinny, young man, about twenty years old, with an unruly thatch of thick blond hair and slightly bulging, blue eyes. His name was Matt Haskins and he always reminded Nick of a frightened scarecrow. The young deputy quickly forced himself back to full alertness and scrambled to his feet as he saw the two Rangers enter.

"Oh, hey, Mr. Preston, Mr. Stokes," Haskins greeted the two men enthusiastically.

Nick flinched inwardly. He really hated it when Haskins called him 'Mr. Stokes'. He was only a few years older than the other man and he always felt like a complete imposter being addressed so formally.

"Hey, Matt," John said. "Is Ted in his office?"

"Yes sir."

"You think he'd mind if we went in to talk to him for a few minutes?"

"Oh, no sir, go right ahead."

"Thanks, Son."

Nick nodded his own greeting to the deputy and followed John to the back of the small lobby, to the door marked 'Sheriff" in large, black painted letters. John knocked and a muffled voice invited them to enter.

Inside the small office, hunched behind a small, battered desk was Ted Willoughby. He was a tall, lanky man in his mid-fifties. He had thinning gray hair and a matching limp mustache. He looked up at his visitors with far less enthusiasm than his deputy.

"Well, if you two are here, it can't be good news," Willoughby said, leaning back in his chair, his tone cool.

The Texas Rangers were a bit of an anomaly. They were a former military unit, turned law enforcement and their jurisdiction covered the entire state of Texas. But they had no clearly defined function. For the most part, they tracked cattle rustlers, as rustlers could, and often did, roam the large state, moving from one jurisdiction to another. The Rangers took the lead in any cross-jurisdictional manhunt, but could also, at the request of the governor, take over any investigation, in any jurisdiction in the state. This tended to make for some tension between the Rangers and the local authorities.

"Relax, Ted, we're just here to ask some questions," John said. He sat down in the only other chair in the small office, while Nick remained standing near the door.

"What questions?"

John described the scene he and Nick had encountered at Vito Santorelli's ranch. Willoughby listened distractedly and by the end of the Ranger's monologue, the sheriff was smiling to himself.

"Let me guess," Willoughby said, "Vito claims this is a sign from God of the End of Days? Yeah, Santorelli see 'signs' everywhere. He's in here every other week, rantin' about something. I am so glad that he decided to bother you this time, instead of me. But you're not really taking this seriously, are you John?"

"No, but I told him I'd look into it. So, have you heard of anything like this? Any other ranchers report finding half-skinned cows?"

"No, I've never heard of anything like that. And before you ask, I haven't heard of any 'rogue' Indians, either."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Thanks for your time, Ted, and you'll let us know if anything comes up?" John asked, getting to his feet.

"Oh, sure, I'll let you know right away, about any more 'signs from God'," Willoughby said with a chuckle. "And you two boys have a good time, chasing your tails."

"Asshole," John said softly as the two Rangers left the sheriff's office. Nick smiled and nodded his agreement.

The sun was high when the two men left the lobby and stepped back onto the boardwalk. The day was already promising to be a warm one. The two men touched their hats and nodded their greetings to a passing woman and her husband.

"Where to now?" Nick asked.

"Let's head on over to the Whistle Stop and see if anyone there has heard of anything," John suggested.

"Sure, and while we're there, we'll just have a drink or two, right?" Nick asked slyly.

"Well, we want to be sociable, now don't we?"

The Whistle Stop Saloon was located at the edge of town, right next to the train depot. With two newly completed railroad lines running beside the town, Dallas, Texas was a city on the grow. Dallas was a transfer point between the two lines and people often had several hours or more to wait between trains. Those people needed places to go and things to do to occupy themselves in the meantime. The trains also brought in goods from all over the country. People from all over the state flocked to Dallas to buy things that were previously unavailable to them.

Being located next to the train depot, the Whistle Stop was a natural gathering place, not only for the tourists, but the locals as well. As such, it was the hub of incoming news from other parts of the country, as well as local gossip. As it was still fairly early in the day, the saloon wasn't very busy when the two Rangers entered and seated themselves at a central table.

They had barely gotten themselves settled in their chairs and taken off their hats, before a pretty, young woman with dark hair and wearing a bright pink, satin dress appeared beside their table. Without waiting for an invitation, the girl seated herself in Nick's lap and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Nick, when are you going to take me away and make an honest woman of me?" the girl asked saucily.

"Oh, when I strike it rich and I can actually afford to keep you," the young man responded, slipping his hands around her small, tightly-corsetted waist.

"Oh, well, that'll never happen," the girl said, with a mock pout.

"Kristy, when you're done molesting my partner, what do you say you bring us a couple of beers?" John asked good-naturedly, accustomed to this performance. He and Nick always stopped here when passing through Dallas, which was often, considering Nick's folks lived nearby.

"Sure, John," Kristy said with a smile and got to her feet. She playfully ruffled Nick's dark hair as she started back toward the bar.

The young man turned in his chair to watch appreciatively as she walked away, enjoying the impertinent swish of her skirts and the way her dress revealed a scandalous amount of shapely calf and ankle. John watched his young partner in amusement.

"Instead of just watching the girl and flirting with her all the time, why don't you just take her upstairs and give her a tumble in bed?" John asked. "I'll wait."

Turning back around, the younger man said nothing, but lowered his eyes and blushed slightly.

"It is part of her job, you know."

"I know that," Nick mumbled, keeping his eyes averted.

What John didn't know, was that Nick had been upstairs with Kristy, more than once. But she never charged him and Nick wasn't one to brag about such things. Besides, what Nick did on his own time was none of John's business.

Kristy returned with two large mugs of beer and set them on the table. She ran a lingering hand up Nick's arm as she walked away. Seeing this John rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"I just don't understand you," he said.

"My father is a local judge, you know," Nick reminded the older man.

"I know, I know, but still... Damn, if I had a pretty, little thing like that flirting with me, father or no father..." His voice trailed off, his expression more than making his meaning clear.

Nick smiled, but simply reached for his beer. The two men sat drinking for a couple of hours, waiting for more men to trickle into the saloon. They chatted with several of these new arrivals, but no one had anymore information, until Jake Spencer, another rancher wandered into the saloon.

"Well now, actually I found one of my dogs in that same shape," Jake said, when the two Rangers asked him about his cattle.

"How long ago?" Nick asked.

"It was just a couple days ago."

"And its face had been peeled off?"

"Yeah, it was the damnedest thing I ever saw. I just figured it was some kid looking for trouble. You know how some them can be. That or Indians. I mean, they're just savages. Who knows why they do anything."

"Do you still have the dog's body? Can we see it?" Nick asked.

"Well, hell no, I buried it! It was just a dog," Jake said, looking at the young Ranger as if he was insane.

"Oh, right," Nick said quickly.

They remained for a couple more hours, but when no one else came forward with information, John suggested they leave. It was late afternoon when they finally emerged back into the Texas sunshine.

"What now?" Nick asked.

"All that beer's made me hungry," John commented, rubbing his belly. "I think maybe we should head on back to your folk's ranch. As you said, your father's a judge. He's in touch with what's going on around town. He might've heard of something and just didn't think to mention it before."

"Yeah, and maybe my mother made some of her sweet potato pie," Nick commented suspiciously.

"Well, now, that would be a stroke of luck," John said in mock surprise. "You do know how I love your Ma's sweet potato pie."

Nick had always marveled at John's ability to divine exactly when it was that Jillian Stokes made her famous sweet potato pie, but somehow the elder Ranger always knew. And he was not wrong this time either. As usual, the pie was excellent, as was the rest of the meal.

During dinner, they questioned Bill Stokes, as well as Nick's older brother, Patrick, who also lived at the ranch. Patrick was an attorney in town and neither he, nor the judge had heard any reports of skinned animals being found.

"I have to ask, what do you two plan to do, if you do manage to find this person?" Bill asked.

"Make him pay for the cow," John said with a dismissive shrug.

Noting that his son was keeping his eyes averted, Bill said, "Nick..."

At last the young man looked up. "I just want to know who he is, so I can keep an eye on him."

"Why?"

"Because I don't think he's done yet."

"What do you mean?"

"Dad, you didn't see that cow. He didn't just kill it. He mutilated it. I have to think that it would take an awful lot of anger, to make someone do something like that. If the butcher, whoever he is, is that angry, why would he necessarily stop with just killing a dog and a cow?

"Think about it, you've said yourself that you tend to see the same angry, violent men in your courtroom. These are the kinds of men who beat their animals, their children, their wives. It's all the same to them. What would make this guy any different?"

With a sigh, Bill sat back in his chair and regarded his youngest son gravely. The young man had always had a big heart and it was something that had always worried Bill when Nick had announced that he was joining the Rangers.

"Yes, Nick, that's true, but so far, none of those men have actually crossed the line to murder, just drunken brawls or minor acts of vandalism. And whether I like it or not, how a man disciplines his wife and children, is his business, not the law's. I think you're making a very big assumption that just because this man killed an animal, he's also going to kill a human."

"I'm not necessarily saying that he will kill a human. I just want to be able to keep an eye on him, just in case."

It was after dark by the time dinner was over and everyone went to bed shortly afterward. The Stokes' had a large house. They'd had seven children, although mostly girls, who were now married and living with their husbands. Only Patrick and his wife remained living at the house. So, there were plenty of spare bedrooms.

It was quite early the next morning, while it was still dark outside, that loud pounding on the front door woke the entire household. Nick was just emerging from his bedroom, still tucking his hastily donned shirt into his trousers, and he saw his father's back retreating down the hall, towards the front of the house. Nick followed. He could hear John and Patrick emerging from their rooms behind him.

By the time the younger men had reached the front of the house, Bill had already opened the door to admit Matt Haskins, the deputy, who appeared shaken and slightly out of breath. After politely acknowledging the judge, Haskins turned his attention to Nick and John.

"Mr. Stokes, Mr. Preston, Sheriff Willoughby sent me. He figured you'd be here. We found a dead body in town. He said you'd want to see it."

The two Rangers glanced at each other for a moment, before John said, "Ride on ahead and tell him we'll be there as quick as we can."

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The pool of blood beneath the body looked thick and black in the glow of the bull's eye lantern. There was no question that the woman had been killed right there in the yard behind the train depot. One of the customers of the Whistle Stop had found her, when he'd stepped behind the depot to take a discreet piss.

Just like the dog and the cow previously, her throat had been slit and her face peeled away. Although this time, the killer had taken the skin with him. The killer had also added one more indignity. The woman's skirts were hiked up around her waist and her genitals had also been viciously slashed.

"Do we know who she is?" John asked quietly.

"With no face, there's no way to know who she is," Willoughby answered.

The woman's clothing was fairly nondescript, a plain black skirt paired with a white blouse. Most likely, almost every woman in the Dallas area owned similar garments. This woman could be any one of them or someone from out of town.

Staring down at the body, Nick felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He'd seen dead bodies before, even dead women, but this was beyond everything else. This was definitely worse than the cow. He swallowed with some difficulty and tried to block out the sounds of Deputy Haskins vomiting in the bushes behind him. A slight glint of something metallic, lying on the ground near the body, caught his attention and he knelt down to see what it was.

It was a small, plain, gold cross on a delicate gold chain. The chain had obviously been cut when the killer slit the woman's throat. A sudden flash of memory made Nick's stomach clench and his blood run cold. He knew this necklace.

"It's Kristy Hopkins," he said, his voice choked.

"What? How do you know?" John asked.

Nick held the necklace out for his partner to see. "She told me her mother gave it to her, just before she died. Kristy always wore it. She never took it off."

Sheriff Willoughby turned to his deputy, who had finally gotten his stomach under control. "Matt, go into the saloon. See if anybody can find Kristy."

"Yes sir," the boy said and disappeared into the night.

"It's her," Nick said, with terrible certainty. He felt numb now, as if all of his emotions had drained away, leaving him an empty husk. He turned to look up at John. "Now, can we take photographs?"

John bit his lip for a moment then said, "Yeah, that's a good idea." He turned to one of the many bystanders. "Carl, go wake up Arthur Hayes. Tell him I sent you. Tell him to get his hide down here and bring his photographic equipment with him."

It was nearly twenty minutes later before Haskins returned with Emma Swanlee. She was another one of the saloon's working girls.

"Where's Kristy?" Emma demanded. "Is she alright?"

"Matt, keep her back!" Willoughby barked. "Don't let her see this."

Nick stood and moved through the growing crowd, to stand in front of the distraught woman. He held the necklace out for her to see. Glancing at it, the woman's hand flew to her mouth.

"It's Kristy's," Emma whispered. She didn't know what was going on, but she knew it was bad.

"I'm sorry, Emma," Nick said softly. "Kristy's dead."

The young Ranger held the woman while she cried on his shoulder and stared blankly into space. He felt as if his soul had been ripped out of his body. He hadn't realized just how much he'd cared for the young saloon girl until now, when it was too late.

Arthur Hayes, the town's photographer, arrived shortly after this and it took some time for John to bully the timid little man into photographing the gruesome scene. Afterward, the Ranger told the man to return to his studio and immediately print the photos out.

It wasn't until late morning that Kristy's body was removed by the undertaker and taken to his parlor. Nick had just stood in the background the entire time, watching the proceedings in a sort of detached daze. Doc Cauldwell had given Emma a dose of laudanum and escorted her back into the saloon.

When the body was finally gone and the gawkers had drifted away, John moved to stand beside Nick. The two men stood for a long moment, staring at the still bloody patch of grass.

At last, John said, "Come on, I don't know about you, but I need a drink."

"Yeah," Nick mumbled and followed his partner into the saloon.

It seemed strange when Tess, another of the working girls, brought them the bottle of whiskey they had ordered. Kristy had been the only one who waited on Nick and John before. The two men had downed nearly half the bottle before either finally spoke.

"You okay, Kid?" John asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Nick answered, his voice sounding unusually dull.

The other man nodded, although he knew perfectly well that his young partner was far from 'fine'.

"Listen, Nick, why don't you head on back to your folk's ranch. Ted and I will handle this."

The younger man seemed to think about this for a moment, before he said, "Yeah, okay. I'll do that. Thanks, John."

Nick rose from the table a bit unsteadily and left the saloon. But he didn't head back to the Stokes Ranch. Instead, he went to the undertaker's parlor.

Sam Foster, the undertaker, was a small, wiry man in his early sixties. He was extremely pale and bald, with a soft, gentle voice. He had large, watery blue eyes, that he rarely seemed to blink and Nick found the man thoroughly creepy. When the Ranger asked to see the body, Foster simply pointed to the plain, pine box laid out on his work table.

Nick moved closer to it and ran his hands lightly over the rough, unfinished surface. "What's going to happen to her?" he asked, still not taking his eyes off the box.

"She'll be buried in the field, just outside of town."

"Not the churchyard?" Nick asked, turning to face the small man.

"Well, generally, for a woman of her 'occupation' to be buried in the churchyard, Rev. Whitehall prefers for there to be a 'donation' to the church, as a sort of compensation for the extra cleansing of sins."

"You mean a bribe?" Nick asked in disgust.

The undertaker gave a prim little shrug and said, "Unfortunately, Miss Hopkins has no relations to provide this 'donation' and apparently none of her friends have come forward to provide it either."

Nick dug into the pockets of his trousers and produced several coins and a couple of bank notes. He thrust them at the undertaker.

"Is this enough?" Nick asked harshly.

"Uh, yes, I'm sure that would be plenty."

"Good. See to it that she's given a proper burial, in the churchyard, with a grave marker."

"As you wish."

Over the next few days, the investigation of Kristy Hopkins' death ground to a standstill. For the most part, the area locals could account for their whereabouts that night and the out-of-towners had already left. John did learn from a couple of the Whistle Stop's regulars that a very tall man in expensive clothes had been seen in the saloon earlier that night talking to the girl. They had left the saloon together. Unfortunately this same man had also been seen boarding a northeast-bound train later that night.

"So, why aren't we going after him?" Nick demanded, when he'd heard this news.

"Nick, that train was headed to Arkansas," John said. "We have no jurisdiction there. We don't even know that he's our man."

The younger man gave a frustrated sigh and downed his shot of whiskey in one gulp. He and John were seated at their usual table in the Whistle Stop. They had been spending quite a bit of time there as of late. John had sent a telegram to Austen, explaining the situation, so they weren't expected back any time soon. As they continued to drink in silence, they heard the distinct rumble of an arriving train. The glasses on the table shook slightly with the vibrations of the massive machine.

A short time later, several men began filing into the saloon. They had obviously just arrived on the train. Two of them sat down at the table next to John and Nick's. These two men were talking loudly and they called out for a bottle of whiskey. Mary, the new girl who had replaced Kristy, was a skinny, nervous girl and she quickly scurried over to the table with a bottle and a couple of glasses.

Nick listened numbly as the two out-of-towners continued to talk loudly. It quickly became clear that they had come from further east, but had passed through Arkansas on their way to Texas. When their conversation turned to a gruesome murder that had occurred in Little Rock while they had been staying there, Nick's interest was piqued.

He turned to the two men and began questioning them. He learned that a local prostitute had been murdered in a particularly disturbing way. Her throat had been slit and her face peeled off. She had also been slashed "elsewhere".

"'Don't know that he's our man', huh?" Nick said, after the two easterners had left to find rooms for the night. "Well, now we do know he's our man and now we know where he is, Arkansas."

"Nick, settle down, there ain't nothin' we can do about it. As I said, we have no jurisdiction in Arkansas. Even if we found him, we can't arrest him."

"Who said anything about arresting him?"

"Nick..."

"Alright, alright, telegraph the U.S. Marshals. Have them track him down."

"Nick, Son, I know Kristy was your friend, but the trail's cold by now and it'll be even colder by the time the Marshals get involved, if they get involved. I gotta say it, I really don't think the Marshals are going to put a whole lot of effort into tracking down the killer of a..."

"Whore?" Nick finished for the other man, his voice bitter.

John shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry, Son, but you're just going to have to let this go."

"No. I'm sorry, John, but I just can't do that. Every time I close my eyes, I see her sweet smile and I..." Nick stood up from the table. "I'm going to Arkansas, John, with or without you."

"Nick, you are a Texas Ranger and, as your superior, I am ordering you not to do that."

"I'm sorry, John," the younger man said, pulling the silver star off his shirt front and dropping it onto the table. "This is something I have to do."

To be continued...