The Investigator (Letty Davenport, #1) (121)

The brown-eyed political aide was no longer coming around to visit with her, though he left a note, hoping to see her on his trips back to the capital. He’d gone to Ohio to prepare for a congressional run, still two years away, but he said he needed to be there, on the ground. He would miss their chats.



* * *





One rainy day in October, Letty took a phone call in her closet/office. She said hello, and after a moment of silence, a woman asked, “Letty Davenport?”

“Yes, this is she.”

“This is Jane Hawkes . . . Jael.”

Letty fumbled for something to say, and came up with “Where are you?”

“I’m in Washington State. Leaving Washington State, I should say. When I finish talking to you, I’m going to take the batteries out and throw this phone out the car window.”

“What do you want?”

“I’ve read about you. You should have been with us—you’re another version of me. White trash. You got lucky and got adopted by rich people, but you won’t escape it. Not in the long run. I had to try to make it on my own, and you know what? I never did. I kept getting pushed down. Kept getting dragged down. Tried to do something about it and you wrecked my Land Division.”

“You murdered nineteen people altogether, the last one died only a week ago,” Letty said. “Six of them were babies and small children.”

“That was Rand . . .”

“Bullshit. That was you,” Letty said. “You killed those people, Jane, you and your fucked-up militia.”

“I didn’t want to kill anyone—but I’ve been thinking about it, and I guess I’ll take it. My share of the responsibility. We’re mobilizing people in this country and they’re coming my way. Pershing will be a monument.”

“You’re deranged,” Letty said. “You’re nuts.”

“No, I’m not. I’m right. As for you . . . we’re coming for you,” Hawkes said.

Hawkes couldn’t see it, but Letty stood up and nodded, touched her pocket with the 938 nestled inside. “Do that, Jane,” she said. “Bring it on. Bring everything you fucking got.”





ABOUT THE AUTHOR



John Sandford is the pseudonym for the Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist John Camp. He is the author of twenty-nine Prey novels; four Kidd novels; twelve Virgil Flowers novels; three YA novels coauthored with his wife, Michele Cook; and three other books.