Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(75)

I realize the two of them are standing over a man who’s lying crumpled off to the side of the road, his top half dangling down into a ditch. He must be dead or deeply unconscious, because he’s not moving at all, even to recover from an unnatural position. The two men silently look down on the body. Finally, one deputy crouches down and leans into the ditch, with the other holding his belt for stability, and I presume he checks for signs of life. It’s obviously futile from the shake of his head when he’s pulled upright again.

Then both men are headed back toward me. This time I don’t raise my hands. I cross my arms.

“Check her car for front-end damage,” the white deputy orders, and I see the black one give him a long side-eye, but he decides this isn’t worth it and goes to look.

“Nothing,” he says. “No sign of any damage here.”

They’re looking for evidence that I ran the guy down, I realize. “He was thrown from the bed of the truck when it spun out. I didn’t hit him or the truck,” I say. “I guess you can call it an accident in commission of attempted murder.”

The deputy sent to check for front damage proceeds around the car toward the back, and says, “Jesus, come look at this. Must be five shots that hit here, not counting the window damage.”

The white deputy joins him, and I see the flashlight playing over the cracked and broken glass. “Huh,” he says. “Don’t know that those weren’t there already.” I hear the resentful mistrust.

That’s when it becomes clear to me that this man knows exactly who I am. Unlike the first deputy, he didn’t ask for my ID, didn’t ask what happened. He’s already made up his mind that I’m somehow to blame just for existing. And I feel a sick, metallic taste forming in the back of my throat.

Gwen Proctor. Gina Royal. Whoever I might be, there will always be someone who thinks the worst of me and tries in petty ways to make my life more difficult.

“Look, there are shell casings all over the road back there,” the black deputy says, and I can tell he’s growing impatient now. “She was on the phone with Detective Fairweather the whole time. I could hear the shots when I was hooked up on the call. Couldn’t you?”

“We can have this discussion later. I’m calling out the detectives. Let them sort this mess out.”

On the one hand, that’s good news; I’d been afraid he’d send the first deputy on his way, and then claim I’d gone for his gun and shoot me dead somewhere out of sight of the kids. Paranoid? Sure. But then, someone’s clearly out to get me.

On the other hand, having detectives in the mix can mean anything. They won’t necessarily be on my side either.

I can only hope that Fairweather will show up for me.



Fairweather does, in fact, show up. The detective takes me and the kids to the county sheriff’s station, which is about half an hour away. My SUV’s towed in for evidence processing.

I know I’m in for long, dark hours of saying the same things over and over again. And so are my kids. I don’t tell them what to say. They know to tell the truth.

I look up at the black sky on the way inside. Sam, I think.

Please be okay.

I’m not wrong about the long hours, or the exhaustion that takes hold; after my statement I catch a catnap with my head down on my crossed arms on the table, and when I wake up, I find that the kids are camping out on a fold-out couch, sound asleep. “They’re okay,” Fairweather tells me. “A couple of minor scratches from the broken glass. You?”

“Sore,” I tell him. “But that’s from stress and lack of sleep. I’m sure you feel that way too.”

He silently offers me a bottle of ibuprofen, and I take two with a swig of not-great coffee. “How’s Sam?” he asks me, and for a second I wonder when, exactly, our guarded relationship progressed to first names. It was Ms. Proctor and Mr. Cade with him, but now it’s Gwen and Sam. I suppose around the time he had to listen to me being shot at, which was a vivid demonstration of just how far people will go to actually get me. I’ve been moved to a category of persons he actually cares about.

“Mike texted me,” I tell him. “Peaceful night, seems like.”

“Mike’s the FBI agent you talked about?”

“Yeah. Mike Lustig.”

“He’s the one broke the Absalom case,” Fairweather says. I raise my eyebrows. “I follow the news, time to time. He got some kind of commendation too.”

“That’s him,” I say. “Big Man on Federal Campus right now, at least. That must have registered with Chief Weldon.”

“Yeah. About Weldon.” Fairweather stirs his coffee. “He was a pretty straight shooter when he started five years back in the office, but lately he’s been . . .”

“Shady,” I say.

“Let’s just say that there are some people in town who can do no wrong, as far as the locals are concerned.”

“But not Vee Crockett.”

“No. Nor Marlene.”

I take a risk. “She worked at the garage, right? For Mr. Carr? You know anything about him?”

“Carr’s a weird old duck. He’s got a place out of town. A compound.”

Compound is a telling choice of words. “I’m guessing visitors aren’t welcome.”