Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(97)

“Fine.” He isn’t. Mike’s voice goes a little deeper. “If I’d just stayed with you, Sam—”

“It probably would have gone down the same way,” I say. Ironic that Miranda’s dead in a fight that had nothing to do with her, or Gwen, or Melvin Royal. A fight over money, pure and simple. But I’d like to think that she would have protected that little girl to the end. Miranda was a mother first. Always.

Having her gone from the world now feels inexplicable. Love, hate, that no longer matters. She’s been such a presence in my life that coming to terms with that vast absence will take time.

“You think Carr and Weldon are behind this,” Fairweather says. “That they’ve got the kid?”

“Likely,” I say. “Unless the poor kid’s already dead.”

“Proof of life came in, but that was before the ransom was paid. Time’s running out, if it hasn’t already,” he replies. He’s silent for a while. “I’m not going back for Gwen.”

“Hang on,” I say, and start to get up.

“Stay down. Got another black SUV like this one, coming up behind us,” he says. “It’s the original kidnappers, right? Come to find their prize. They still want their cash.”

“Don’t care,” I say. “We have to go back.”

“They’re safe where they are, right?”

“I don’t know that. They’re with the lawyer. Sparks.”

“Then they’re safe for now. Stay the hell down.” He’s watching the rearview mirror, and I can read the tension in him. He finally says, “Carr’s got a compound outside of town. He claims he’s a farmer, but word is he’s some kind of sovereign-citizen nut too. It’s a perfect place to keep the kid secret. I’m making the call.”

Mike says, “Could local PD pick up that call? Listen in?”

It makes Fairweather hesitate as he reaches for the radio. “Yeah. Shit. We need a good head start.”

I care about that, but not as much as I care about finding my family right now. “Gwen and our kids. Right now. Or I jump the hell out of this car.”

“Do you want to die?” he asks. “If I don’t get you two out of town, that will happen. Not just to you. To Gwen and the kids too.”

I don’t like it, but he might be right. “Be honest. Is Sparks part of this?”

“Don’t think so,” he says. “He’s a screwup, but not in with Carr and Weldon. Sparks is a loner. Not a very good lawyer either. He passed the bar after—what was it—three tries? He’s been pretending to be a big shot around town for many years, but he never tried a single criminal case before.”

That’s a jolt. “Never? Why give him Vera’s case?” But I know. They’d arranged for Sparks to have the case because Weldon knew Sparks would flail around and let Vera down . . . which he probably would have, if Vee hadn’t called Gwen the day that her mother died. Nobody had seen that coming. So I ask the question that really matters to me. “Are they safe with him?”

Fairweather takes time answering that, which doesn’t make me feel any better. “I know he can’t be part of any kidnapping scheme. Weldon doesn’t trust him. Neither does Carr,” he finally says. “Doesn’t mean I like him. What kind of man makes his sister work as his housekeeper and calls her by a made-up name?”

It takes me a second to realize that he’s talking about Mrs. Pall. “You’re kidding.”

“Wish to hell I was. It’s like a Gothic nightmare in that house. It’s possible the two of them are—” Fairweather stops and shrugs. “Who the hell knows.”

“We need to go back,” I say. “Right now.” It’s more urgent now than ever to get to my family.

“We’re already out of town,” he tells me. “And we’re not turning around.” He takes out the radio and keys it on. “10-34, 10-34, dispatch immediate county assistance, Detective Fairweather with FBI agent Lustig and one civilian outside of—”

The shot comes almost head-on. It punches through the windshield; I don’t see that from where I am, but I hear it. Fairweather drops the radio. “Shit!” Fairweather yells, and jerks the wheel to the left, then right. For a second I think the shot’s missed him completely . . . but it hasn’t. It’s hit him right below the collarbone, dead center, and punched a hole right through. It’s a big entry wound. Blood starts pouring down his shirt front, wicking through the cotton. Bright red taking over the starched white. He looks down at himself as if he’s not quite getting the idea of what’s just happened. I lunge up and grab the wheel as his hands come off it, and I struggle to steer the car as it starts to veer wildly back to the other side. He’s pulled his foot off the accelerator, but that instinct is dead wrong; if we stop now, we’re dead. Someone’s in the trees, and if we don’t get past, they’ll keep firing until we’re swiss cheese.

Fairweather’s eyes have rolled back. No breath, and the pulse of blood has already stopped from his chest. He’s dead. I hate the calculus.

I don’t have time to honor him. I open his driver’s-side door, slam my fingers down on the seat-belt release, and shove him out as I scramble into the blood-drenched seat. It’s warm. His blood soaks into my pants, the back of my shirt. I try not to think about that, or the fact that I’m leaving a good man behind us.