Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane #3)(52)

Someone was outside.

He set down the pillowcase by the back door and crept to the living room window, peering around the frame.

A shadow walked up the front path.





Chapter Twenty-Five

Sharp parked in front of P. J. Hoolihan’s little house in Grey’s Hollow. After his stroke three years before, P. J. Hoolihan and his wife had moved to this compact rancher. According to his son, P. J. needed one floor, but the Hoolihans were country people. A senior community just would not do. They needed the calm and quiet of having their own land around them.

He disconnected his phone from the car charger. The battery had barely charged. He stuffed it in his pocket. Maybe the connection had been loose.

Sharp went up the walk and knocked on the front door. No one answered. Sharp turned and scanned the front yard. A small sedan sat in the driveway. The hairs on the back of Sharp’s neck quivered.

Cupping his hand over his eyes, he peered through the narrow window next to the door.

In between the sofa and TV, two bodies were sprawled. Dark spots arced away from the bodies on the carpet.

No!

Pulling out his phone, he called 911. Cognizant of the crime scene, Sharp pulled gloves out of his pocket and tugged them onto his hands. He tried the doorknob and nearly fell inside when the door opened.

He’d been a cop for twenty-five years, but he flinched when he got an up-close-and-personal look at the living room.

P. J. stared up at the ceiling. He’d been shot dead center in the chest. But his wife . . .

She was lying across her husband’s belly. Half her face was gone. Bits of bone and blood had been sprayed across the pale carpet. Bloody matter spattered across the television screen. Sharp crouched next to the bodies. Pulling off a glove, he pressed his fingertips to P. J.’s neck, then checked his wife for a pulse. Both were dead, but just barely. Their hearts weren’t pumping blood from their wounds, but gravity was still at work. Blood oozed from Mrs. Hoolihan’s face. P. J. must have died quickly. His chest wound hadn’t bled much.

Was the shooter still close by?

Sharp’s mind spun. Whoever had shot these poor people didn’t want P. J. to talk about Mary. Why? Probably because the shooter had killed Mary. Had he killed Vic too?

Sharp scanned the room, taking in the upended drawers and general ransacked appearance. This was no burglary. Sharp wasn’t buying the cover-up for a second.

A shadow moved outside the window.

The shooter had gone out the back door and circled around.

Sharp crept to the door. The man outside could be the key to the twenty-three-year-old mystery that had ruined two lives and consumed Sharp’s career.

He eased the door open a few inches and peered through the gap.

The figure had reached a line of decorative trees planted on what Sharp assumed was the property line. He must have a vehicle stashed somewhere.

And if he had a vehicle, maybe it could be used to identify him.

Sharp slipped out the door, pushing it almost closed behind him. Straining his eyes in the dark, he searched for the figure in the shadows but saw nothing. Crouching low, he jogged across the grass toward the trees. If he could just get a look at the guy or his car or his license plate.

Anything.

If Sharp stopped to call the sheriff, the shooter would be long gone before help came.

Sharp reached the trees. Hiding behind a mature pine, he peered around the trunk but still saw no one. Had the shooter gotten away? Sharp listened for the sound of an engine but all he heard was the wind rustling in the treetops—and the hammering of his own heart.

Somewhere out there was a killer with a gun he wasn’t afraid to use. A killer who needed to be stopped.

Sharp stole across ten feet of open space to the next tree. This one wasn’t quite wide enough to provide adequate cover. He didn’t waste time behind it, but jogged toward the next one.

Thirty feet away, a figure stepped out from behind a tree. A gun fired with a small burst of orange light. A flash of searing pain hit Sharp’s arm. He dove to the ground, rolling behind a tree. Panting, he glanced around the trunk and saw the black-clad figure disappear into the deeper woods. A few seconds later, an engine started, and he heard a vehicle driving away.

Rolling to his back, Sharp pressed a hand over his bicep. Blood welled between his fingers.

Shit!

He climbed to his feet and walked back to his car to wait. After digging out his first aid kit from the trunk of his car, he removed his ruined jacket and cut the sleeve from his shirt. The bullet had grazed his bicep. He needed stitches, but he wouldn’t bleed to death any time soon. He doused the bloody furrow with antiseptic, which felt like he’d soaked his arm with gasoline and lit it with a match. He opened his car door, sat sideways on the seat, and put his head between his knees. When the ground stopped tilting, he sat up and covered the wound with a bandage.

Deputies arrived one by one. Thirty minutes later, the sheriff still hadn’t made an appearance. Maybe he’d get lucky. Maybe Sheriff King wasn’t available. The sheriff was spread thinly this week. He couldn’t be everywhere. Sharp was feeling good about the possibility as the responding deputy took his statement.

Another fifteen minutes later, the sound of a vehicle approaching caught his attention. The sheriff’s car parked in the road.

Sharp gritted his teeth. His arm throbbed. He was not in the mood to deal with Sheriff King.