Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(74)

“Gwen Proctor,” I say, and I see him physically relax, but he still asks to see ID. I provide it. He’s a potbellied man of middle age, African American, with a shaved head and close-trimmed beard. “I don’t know what happened, but we were chased and shot at with a rifle, and then with a handgun.”

“Is anyone injured?”

“No. We’re all right.”

“Can you ask the children to exit the vehicle, please?”

I don’t want the kids out of the car. Not yet. “I’d rather leave them inside until you’ve secured the area.”

He frowns. “Ma’am—”

“The man shooting was thrown from the bed of the truck toward the end of the chase, but I don’t know if he’s still capable of firing. Until I know he’s disarmed, they need to stay safe.”

He accepts that, and says, “Where was he thrown?”

“Back there at the curve.” I point. “I’ll go with you. It looked like he was tossed to the northbound side.”

“No, ma’am, I want you to stay here with your vehicle and do not move. I’ll be back as soon as I can. There should be a second response vehicle coming in another couple of minutes; you wait for him.” With that, he’s off into the dark, only the jerky motion of his flashlight beam marking his position.

I knock on the window. Lanny, now in the driver’s seat, rolls it down. “Phone,” I tell her. She hands it over. “Thanks, sweetie. Close this now.”

I check for a signal and find two bars, thank God. And even better, Fairweather’s somehow still on the line. “Gwen? Christ almighty, you scared me.”

“Yeah, sorry,” I say, which is just reflex. I’m not sorry. I’m happy as hell that luck made him a witness to all this. “I had to make some defensive moves. The truck’s gone now, headed toward Wolfhunter. We’re okay; the first cruiser is here. The deputy’s looking for the shooter who was thrown clear.”

“You ever get a clear look at the make and model?”

“I did, when it spun out. Red Ford F-150, I’m pretty sure. It can’t be too hard to find; it looked new-ish.”

“How are the kids?”

“Scared to death,” I say. “And my kids have been through enough without this on top of things. If they want evidence, my SUV is full of bullet holes, and maybe there’s an actual bullet they’ll be able to salvage and match. This wasn’t just some random country harassment. They wanted me dead, Detective. And I want to know who, and why.” I think I already do know, but I’m not completely sure about Fairweather. Not enough to tip my hand to him, anyway.

I realize that my voice is rising, and I’m shaking hard. The adrenaline is being flushed out of my system now that I know things are calming down. My head is full of horrible visions of my children wounded, bleeding, dead. And where I was calm before, I can’t control the rage that’s rising. I want to kill these men for threatening my kids.

Detective Fairweather is talking, and I try to catch up on what he’s been saying. “—license plate?”

“No,” I tell him. “Like I told you . . . it’s dark out here on the roads. And I had headlights in my rearview most of the time.”

“Did the truck wreck? Any body damage?”

“No. Spun out, got straight. It headed back toward Wolfhunter.”

He covers the phone and talks to someone, probably the dispatcher again; I can hear the voices but not the message. “Right,” he says. “The BOLO is going out now for the truck. Anything distinctive about it that you noticed? Bumper stickers, dents, rust?”

“It’s got some mud on it, but it’s in good shape,” I say. “American-flag sticker in the back window, I think. But I didn’t have a lot of time to study it. I was trying to stay alive.”

The second county cruiser’s flashing lights are starting to strobe the trees, so I finish with Fairweather and put the phone away. I repeat the ritual of holding up my hands as the second deputy steps out. He seems more aggressive than the first. “Keep those hands up!” he shouts. His halogen headlights are washing harshly over me, the SUV, and the road. “Higher!”

If I go any higher, I’ll dislocate a shoulder, but I try. I stand perfectly still, since he seems like the type who’ll kill me for a twitch, and he spins me and plants me against the hood of the SUV.

I’m instantly somewhere else, my palms against the searing-hot metal of the old Gina Royal mommy van, my vulnerable young children staring wide-eyed through the windshield. The demolished garage wall of our old house. A dead woman swaying at the end of a wire noose inside the broken wall.

It’s a flashback. A bad one. The urge to slam backward against the invasive hands of this deputy is almost overwhelming. Breathe, I tell myself. This is different. This is now. You’re safe. You’re safe.

It doesn’t feel different.

He finally steps back, but keeps one hand against my back. “Don’t move,” he orders. “Get those kids—”

. . . out of the vehicle, he’s about to say, but he doesn’t get that far. The other deputy calls to him, and he emphasizes staying in place with a last shove to my spine before I hear him moving off with heavy footsteps. I turn and watch as he clicks on his flashlight and directs the beam on his African American colleague.