The Silence (Columbia River #2)(64)

“Because of the memorial service,” Ray said bluntly. “I tried to finagle my way to it. Doctors wouldn’t let me out even for an hour.”

“Doing their job.”

“How was it? Jill couldn’t bring herself to go, and I know she feels guilty about not showing support.”

“Not showing support? She’s personally met with every spouse affected by the shooting. No one’s going to fault her for not making a ceremony.”

“You and I know that, but she still worries.”

“The service was good,” Mason said. His throat thickened, and he looked Ray in the eye. “I was thankful your picture wasn’t on that stage.”

“That would have sucked.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” Mason looked at his hands, which were holding the side rail of Ray’s bed. His fingers were white from gripping too hard. “I still feel nauseated when I think of it.”

“It’s past. It’s over. I’m fine. I’ll have a few new scars to show off,” Ray joked.

Mason glanced away, struck by the memory of those bleeding injuries. “I’d rather not see them.”

“I know,” Ray said. “But I plan to use them as a reminder to not take every day for granted.”

The men sat silently for a long moment. It was a comfortable silence. Mason didn’t feel pressured to fill it with talk as he considered Ray’s statement.

He needed to have the same attitude. Life had given him a second chance at happiness with Ava. He wouldn’t take a day of it for granted.

“I heard the missing finger turned up at your place,” Ray said, breaking the silence.

“Who told you all this?”

“I promised not to tell. Is it true?”

“There was definitely a finger, and I assume it’s Reuben Braswell’s missing middle digit. I hate to think that there’re other people lacking fingers just to intimidate me.”

“But why intimidate you?” Ray asked. “Why are you a target? Maybe it’s Ava.”

“True,” Mason said. “Ava knew Reuben, but I’m the one looking for his killer—who most likely left the finger.”

“There are a lot more people besides you working this case,” Ray pointed out. “But to me the finger at your home feels very personal. Are you sure you’ve never encountered Shawn Braswell in the past?”

“He’s never been in trouble. He doesn’t have a record.”

“What about in your personal life?”

Mason shook his head. “I’m old. You think I remember every person I’ve met?”

“Just because you’re older than me doesn’t mean you’re old. You could kick the butt of any officer I know.”

“That’s doubtful.”

“Maybe not through brute strength, but you’re fast and sharp and conniving.”

“Thank you, I think? Still doesn’t mean I can remember if I’ve met Shawn Braswell. Maybe I cut him off on the way to the Starbucks drive-through. Maybe he’s the type to hold a grudge.”

Ray thought for a moment. “We can’t assume Shawn was driving. Sure, it’s a car like his, but with stolen plates, we can’t say it was his for certain.”

Mason noticed Ray’s use of the word we but didn’t correct him. “It’d be a big coincidence that I was following someone else’s Mustang, but I won’t rule it out.”

“What about the missing dad . . . What’s his name?”

“Tony Schroeder.”

“Could he have killed Reuben?”

“It’s possible.”

“You’re still considering that he killed his son, Kaden, right?”

“Yes. Gillian Wood says she saw a silver car in front of the Schroeder home the evening before Kaden was killed. We have no way of knowing who was there. Shawn Braswell seems most likely.” Mason paused. “But Tony Schroeder has a record. Lot of little stuff.”

“Could he have targeted you last night? Have you encountered him before?”

“Not that I’m aware of. He lived in the Central Oregon area for a long time, so I doubt it.”

“You know what else has been bothering me?”

“The gunshot wound in your leg?”

Ray ignored him. “How did someone know we’d respond to the courthouse that day? What if the crime scene tech hadn’t looked through those papers? How did the shooter know there’d be a large law enforcement response?”

“This question bothers everyone,” Mason told him.

“Let me see the photos you took of the papers we found at Braswell’s. The one that mentions the courthouse.”

“You need to rest.”

“I’ve been resting for days. My brain is starting to atrophy. Did you get a lab report on the papers?”

“Yes. Handwriting appears to all be from the same person. Blood on the papers matched the victim.”

“Show me the pictures.”

“Damn, you’re pushy.” Mason pulled out his phone and scrolled through the pictures. He found what he was looking for and handed the phone to Ray, who peered closely at the screen.

“What else did the report say?”