Cold Springs(86)

One guess, Chadwick thought.

“The shooter?” he asked.

“Dead.” Sheriff Kreech studied Chadwick, waiting for a reaction.

“Chadwick's a hero,” Hunter said. “He protected our kids.”

The other man—the young plainclothes officer—was staring at him.

Something clicked in Chadwick's brain.

“You're Special Agent Laramie,” he said. “From San Francisco.”

The young man smiled thinly. “You're a difficult man to catch up with, Mr. Chadwick.”

Chadwick had worked with the FBI on runaway cases a few times. He'd seen enough to know that when agents smiled, it was generally not a good sign. “The shooting was only an hour ago,” Chadwick said. “What did you do—teleport?”

“I got in this afternoon. Booked the flight right after yours.” Laramie asked, “You don't know the shooter?”

“No.”

“His name was Julio de la Garza. ID in his pocket identified him as a Mexican national. I made some inquiries. Guy was ex-military. Had an interesting career before he was discharged—torched a house full of rebel sympathizers down in Chiapas, turned out to be Mayan schoolchildren. Last few years, he's been living in the Mission in San Francisco. Your old neighborhood, isn't it, Mr. Chadwick?”

“A long time ago.”

“Would it surprise you to learn that there were two shooters?”

Laramie's eyes were bright, almost glassy, but intently focused on Chadwick. With that little smile pulling up the corners of his mouth, the special agent could've been a kid playing a lethal video game he understood intuitively.

Hunter said, “Sheriff found casings at a different spot about twenty yards away—second guy was flanking the first, probably took a hike when you sent his buddy airborne.”

“Pérez,” Chadwick said. “The second shooter was Emilio Pérez.”

“Employee to Mr. John Zedman,” Laramie said. “Now why would you think that?”

“Pérez was sent to retrieve the girl. Maybe to kill me, too.”

“You can prove this?”

“Pérez is still out there. He's got Mallory or he's looking for her. He might not even know his boss is dead yet.”

“Missing,” Laramie corrected. “Not dead. Slip of the tongue.”

Chadwick felt his fists curl. “Pérez and the girl didn't get along, Mr. Laramie. If Pérez finds out his boss is dead—that he's suddenly unemployed and he's got a young girl who's undeliverable merchandise—”

“Look,” the sheriff interrupted, raising his hands. “I'm telling you, I ain't convinced these shooters were after anybody. Two idiots in the woods with rifles during hunting season—that ain't exactly a first. These guys spotted an opportunity to make some mischief and they took it.”

No one contradicted him. The silence made it clear enough nobody believed him, either.

“You didn't see a second shooter,” Laramie told Chadwick. “You didn't have any visual ID on this Emilio Pérez, or whoever it was.”

“No.”

“The second shooter just disappeared.”

“Possibly with the girl,” Chadwick said. “And we're standing here talking.”

“Hell, the girl left under her own steam,” Sheriff Kreech insisted. “Who wouldn't?”

Hunter's neck muscles tensed, but he said nothing. He had to live with Bob Kreech, even if Kreech had been elected several times on a promise of closing down Hunter's campus to “safeguard the community.”

Laramie kept his eyes locked on Chadwick. “The firing started while you were still in sight. How long exactly were you out of sight from the rest of the group, would you say, while you did your act of heroism?”

“What are you getting at?” Hunter said. “Chadwick did nothing wrong.”

“No,” Laramie agreed easily. “Just that he appears to be real good with a knife. Woman in Oakland, Talia Montrose—”

“Get the hell off my property,” Hunter said.

“We can't put this conversation off much longer, Mr. Chadwick,” Laramie continued, ignoring Hunter.

“Phone my lawyers in the morning,” Hunter told him. “Until then, Agent Laramie, get the hell out.”

Laramie picked a clump of Spanish moss off the tree branch above him before replying. “I'm here to help, Mr. Chadwick. Think about it. I'll be back tomorrow.”

He walked to one of the police cars, twirling the ball of moss between his fingers.

“Mr. Hunter,” Kreech said, “perhaps you'd give me another few words in private?”

The sheriff knew damn well that Hunter's title was Doctor, but he stubbornly resisted using it. Chadwick turned before he could lose his temper, walked back up the road to where Olsen and Jones were waiting.

“What?” Jones asked.

Chadwick filled them in.

“Where does the f**king FBI get off?” Jones asked. Her eyes burned with pride for her partner. “You took that guy out with a hunting knife. He deserved it.”

Olsen was not burning with pride. Chadwick got the feeling she shared his discomfort.