Her Grave Secrets (Rogue River #3)(26)

Now to get his hands on it.

He wasn’t armed, so he and Walt were even on that count. But Walt hadn’t suffered a blow to the head to short out his nervous system.

Zane would correct that.

He turned his head. Walt was still out of view. He tried to push up to all fours and fought back the urge to puke.

“I’ll find a good spot. He’s out cold, but I’ll tie him up first.”

Panicked energy shot through Zane. Move!

He pulled to one knee and balanced, breathing heavily. The back steps of the cabin doubled and blurred. Walt ended his call, and Zane heard his steps moving in his direction.

Zane lunged for the heavy level as Walt came around the corner of the cabin.

Walt grabbed the level as Zane tripped and rolled in the dirt. He spun over and pushed into a crouching position, his focus on Walt, who held the level like a baseball bat. The lean man grinned at him. “How’s the head?”

“Fuck you.”

Walt stepped in his direction, and Zane scooted backward.

“You a little dizzy? You went down like I’d knocked your brain off its stem.”

Zane said nothing, struggling to focus on which Walt was the real one. “You shot JD Hearne,” he stated.

Walt shrugged. “Not sure what makes you think that.”

“Then why’d you hit me?”

“Because you’re making waves.” The man tightened his grip on the level. “Things were smoothing out. Then you stepped in and stirred them up again.”

“Roy?” Zane croaked.

“He was our smoothing agent.”

Zane briefly closed his eyes. Why, Roy? He focused on Walt again, his eyes working together finally. “You sucked him in. Got him to look the other way.”

“Roy had a weak spot. He liked to gamble. It’d gotten him into a tight situation,” agreed Walt. He took another step toward Zane, studying him like a big cat moving in for the kill.

With his peripheral vision, Zane cast about for a weapon. Anything. He’d left some tools at the side of the cabin where Walt had found the level. But at the moment, the only things within Zane’s reach were dirt and dried grass.

Walt rushed him, swinging the level at his head. Zane pushed off with his legs and dived to the side, rolling onto his back in time to see Walt pivot and swing the level down at him again.

Move!

Zane rolled as the end of the level sliced his ear. Walt took two stumbling steps to get his balance and lifted the level for another swing. Using every ounce of his power, Zane pushed to his feet and ran toward the side of the cabin. He scanned his stash of tools. Sawzall . . . not plugged in. Demolition hammer . . . too short compared to the level. Sledgehammer. Yes.

He grabbed the giant hammer, stunned at its weight. His muscles weren’t at 100 percent. Possibly not even at 50 percent. But damn it, I’m not going to back down. He spun around to face Walt and swung the hammer at him.

Walt halted his dash, jerking his abdomen back in time to miss connecting with Zane’s swing.

“Now what are you going to do?” Zane roared at him.

“You can barely stand up. Your f*cking arms are shaking.”

He was right. Zane’s muscles felt like they belonged to a newborn. He let the sledgehammer head slide down to rest on the ground as he panted, trying to catch his breath. The burst of energy that’d launched him off the ground and to the tools had vanished.

His vision of Walt blurred, and the man laughed at him.

“Problems seeing, Zane?”

“Who’s making the C-22?”

Walt snorted. “Stalling?” He moved closer, that predatory expression narrowing his features.

“Did you kill Bill Taylor?”

Surprise crossed Walt’s face. “Hell, no.”

Shock shot through Zane’s brain; he believed the man. “Then who did?”

Walt swung the level at him in answer. Zane yanked the sledgehammer up and into both hands at chest height, blocking the blow. Walt’s level bounced off the handle and bashed Zane’s chin, making him stutter-step backward and fall, landing hard, which knocked the breath out of his lungs. His skull bounced against the dirt.

As he lay on his back, the level rushed at his face, and he blocked it again with the handle. He kicked and thrashed with his legs, snagging Walt’s shin and thrusting him off-balance. Walt lurched to the side, panting, and Zane spun on his back, continuing his kicking assault. The man danced out of range, and Zane’s arms quivered as he braced the sledgehammer protectively in front of his face.

He couldn’t hold it much longer.



Stevie yanked her steering wheel to the side and parked behind Zane’s vehicle at his cabin. She relayed her arrival to Sheila, who reported back that Rogue County units were five minutes out. She stepped out of her car, her hand resting on the weapon at her hip, and listened.

Gentle wind rushed through the firs. It smelled hot and dry, with that baked-pinecone odor that belongs to a long hot summer.

“Zane?” she yelled at the cabin.

All quiet.

Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. Zane and Walt were probably around back, eagerly discussing foundations and framing.

What sounded like an ax splitting wood reached her ears.

“Zane?”

Silence again. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and she stepped toward the house.