At the Crossroads (Buckhorn, Montana #3)(35)

Culhane took another step, then another. He had to watch where he stepped and yet, at the same time, he was trying to keep one eye on the van. He was close enough now that even a bullet from a handgun could find its mark.

Almost to the other side, he caught sight of what was stuck in the door. A leg. The pants were covered in blood. He took a misstep at the sight of the mangled limb and almost fell through a yawning hole in the bridge floor. He swallowed back the bile that rose up his throat and froze, not even breathing until he got his balance again.

As he stood, he listened for any sound coming from the van, but all he could hear was the wail of the wind as it rushed downriver. Nothing moved in the vehicle. He took another step, then another until he reached the other side of the river and bounded off the bridge.

Weapon drawn, he approached the wrecked vehicle. He had no idea how much time had passed since Alexis had left to take Tina to the hospital. She would come right back, he had no doubt about that. The next town wasn’t that far away. He hoped he hadn’t made a mistake by sending her. If she came across the law... Then she might not be back at all with both of them wanted for questioning in the café shooting.

The van had gone off the left side of the bridge. As he moved along the edge of the embankment, Culhane could see Gene slouched in the passenger seat. It appeared that he’d tried to get out before the crash—his leg getting wedged in the door. Was it possible he was still alive?

As Culhane neared, he realized there was no need to check for a pulse. The front of the man’s face was caved in much like the windshield that now butted up against the facade of the riverbank.

Of course Gene would have unfastened his seat belt to try to jump out before the crash. Had the embankment not been there, Gene would have been thrown from the van—that’s if his leg hadn’t been caught in the door. As it was, he’d gone face-first into the windshield and the rock and dirt. The impact had probably broken his neck.

Whose idea had it been to try to cross the bridge? he wondered. Back at the café, right before Gene and Bobby had left with Tina, Culhane had seen the moment when Bobby had remembered where he’d seen him.

He doubted, though, that Bobby had shared that information with Gene. Bobby would have known that Culhane would come after him and why. He’d know that Culhane was desperate. Was that why Bobby had tried to cross?

So whose idea had it been to throw Tina out to slow him down? Maybe Gene was hoping anyone after them just wanted the woman.

He edged closer, gun trained on the van and caught the coppery smell of blood as he approached the van and what was decaying inside it. Something creaked inside.

Culhane froze.

His gaze shot to the bloody leg trapped in the door. Had it twitched? Or had he imagined it? He knew he was going to have to look inside. Making his way down to the water’s edge, he waded in and approached the side of the van. He could feel the current trying to pull him down and sweep him under the van and away. Another creak as if someone was in there moving around. Or was it the river slowly pushing the van out deeper?

Avoiding looking at Gene’s destroyed face or breathing in the smell of death, he leaned out and grabbed the van’s side-door handle with his free left hand and jerked it open. As the door slid back and water began to pour inside, Culhane pointed the barrel of his gun into the darkness inside.

Nothing inside the van moved. From the looks of the man lying there, Gus had been dead for some time. The van creaked again as the river swept in and the back of it groaned against the pressure.

The report of the gunshot was almost lost in the wind howling through the van. The bullet shattered the driver’s-side window and lodged in the side of the van only inches from Culhane’s head. From the trajectory of the shot, he now knew exactly where Bobby was. He stepped back, making himself less of a target and flattening himself against the side of the vehicle as he edged toward the front again. In order to get to Bobby, he could either swim around the back end or climb up over the embankment. It was an easy choice. He started to backtrack to the bridge, when a bullet whizzed past so close it felt as if it had brushed his cheek.

“Bobby, I just want to talk!” he called across the wrecked van before he ran back to the bridge and up the slope of the road until he was on top of the riverbank. Crouching down, he moved as swiftly as he could to the spot where he thought he’d find Bobby. That was, if he hadn’t moved.

Bobby had to be hurt. Otherwise he would have taken off or found better cover, Culhane told himself. But how badly hurt?

He slowed and peered over. He could see a spot where fishermen had made a path down to the water yards down from the crash site. He hurried to it, staying low, and dropped down to the water’s edge. He couldn’t see the van because of a bend in the river. Working his way along the rocky edge, he finally reached a spot where he could see the rear bumper.

Between gusts, he thought he heard a moaning sound. Cautiously, he edged closer and could see where Bobby had crawled up onto a stretch of shoreline out of the wind. He sat with his back against the earth. His gun lay in his lap, his hands and body covered with blood.

“Bobby, I just want to talk.” No answer, but from here, he could see that Bobby hadn’t moved to pick up the gun. “Bobby?” Nothing. Maybe he had died from his injuries. First Leo. Now Bobby? Another dead end when it came to clearing himself?

Then he heard another moan and carefully approached the man. When he was close enough, he reached over and picked up the gun lying in Bobby’s lap. He saw why the man hadn’t bothered to try to shoot him. He was out of ammunition.