Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(19)

“Costs a shitload, is a ton of time and money to investigate, and probably doesn’t do any good,” I say. “So your advice is . . . wait until one of them shoots one of us in the head and there’s a real crime to investigate.”

“I didn’t say that,” Kezia says, and I recognize that she’s broken out her professionally soothing voice now. I must have sounded like I was taking it personally or something. “Look, I’ll do it. I’ll follow up. I’ll order more patrols around the lake for a while. But the fact is, none of this looks like the work of locals, especially the Belldenes.”

“So nothing’s going to happen to stop it,” I say. “We spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders. The kids grow up living in fear.”

“Sam . . . ,” she starts, but I’m not having it.

“No, Kez, don’t pour sugar on a pile of shit and call it breakfast. You’re leaving Gwen and the kids unprotected when people clearly want them dead.”

“Blunt question, then: What do you want me to do about it? Twenty-four-hour guards? Bring in the FBI? They’ve got a division that specializes in internet threats, but they’re 24/7/365 busy at it with a staff of probably less than a thousand people for the whole country, so those kids are gonna be grown by the time you get their attention. I’m trying to help. I’m also being honest. Lord knows, laws haven’t kept up with threats. But I’m a law officer. I can only do what the law allows.”

I’m angry. I hadn’t expected to be, but I wanted more out of this. Gwen, on the other hand, seems to be the one keeping her cool this time.

“Sam,” Gwen says, “she’s being practical. I didn’t expect anything different. And you know how brave the internet makes some people, at least when they’re behind a screen.”

She meets my gaze, and I look away. I used to be one of those anonymous angry people, typing rage at her through the vague haze of the web. We’ve never discussed any of it in detail, never identified specific screen names or threats or anything else I might have done during that dark, dark period. It’s easier to get past it when we don’t break open the scars. “Anyway. Thanks for your time, Kez. Really, I just wanted to make you aware of the situation so you can be prepared when something comes up.” When, not if. I note the sentence construction.

Kezia flips back to the first photograph, the one where Gwen and the children are perforated with fake gunshot wounds. “This one concerns me,” she says. “More than the others.”

“Why that one?” I ask. There are other photoshops in the packet. Many are worse.

“It’s different. Doesn’t waste time on ideology or fantasy.” She cocks her head and studies it closer. Picks it up and frowns down at the image. “Look, most of these assholes will draw a ton of wounds, right? The bloodier the better. It’s designed to shock and scare. But this one?” She turns the photo toward us. “What do you see?”

We’re both quiet for a few seconds. I finally say, “Kill shots.”

“Right,” she says. “Head and chest. Head and chest. Head and chest. And if you look at where the shots are located, they’re very nearly instant kills. Someone knows their stuff. I’m going to worry about that.”

“So am I,” I say.

Because there are very few things more dangerous than a sniper who knows what he’s doing.



“She’s probably right,” I say on the drive back. “They’re just desk warriors. But I want to reach out to Mike and send him the image just in case he’s seen anything similar, or can find something. I’d really like to know if this guy’s for real or just another shithead with a keyboard.”

Gwen’s not a desk warrior at all; she’s survived worse than most people can imagine. I’m not afraid of a fight either. But strength and courage aren’t a defense against a sniper bullet.

“Check with Javier at the gun range,” Gwen says, and the next second I’m kicking myself for not thinking of it first. “Snipers have to practice, right? Maybe he knows somebody local who’s putting in the time?”

“I’ll go now,” I say. “Drop me off at the truck. I should probably check a couple of job sites too.”

“Will you be back for dinner?”

“Depends. Is it meat loaf?” It’s a running joke right now; for whatever reason, Connor’s decided he can’t get enough meat loaf, and it seems he asks for it at every other meal. Gwen tries not to indulge him too much. But the kids have been through so much, a little excessive serving of meat loaf seems like a small price to buy some happiness.

“Not tonight,” Gwen says.

“Then I’ll be there.”

I lean over to give her a kiss before I slide out when she stops the SUV; it turns long, and sweet, and I start reconsidering going out to the range. But then I remember that every second I don’t track this down could put her in more danger.

So I go.

My truck’s seen hard use bouncing over country roads, but it’s a real workhorse, and I love it . . . except when I get calls. Between the engine noise and the clatter, it’s a bad connection waiting to happen.

I don’t recognize the number that lights up my cell as I climb the hill toward the gun-range parking lot, but I recognize the area code. Washington, DC. I answer and raise my voice to be heard over the engine noise. “Yeah?”