Long Range (Joe Pickett Book 20)(81)

“Stand up and turn around,” Joe said through gritted teeth.

When the cuffs were ratcheted tightly around Patterson’s wrists, Joe said, “How well do you know Dr. Arthur?”

“What do you mean?”

“You coerced him into this, but do you know his heart?”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been around game animals who were shot or poached with high-powered rounds all of my career,” Joe said. “I’ve dug hundreds of slugs out of carcasses so they could be sent to the state lab. Never in my experience has a slug splintered into so many particles that it couldn’t be recovered. Modern bullets aren’t known to do that. Sue Hewitt’s injury was the first time I’d ever heard of it happening, even though Dr. Arthur claimed that’s what happened.”

Because Joe had his hand on Patterson’s shoulder to steer him toward the door, he could feel the man’s muscles suddenly tense.

“Oh, Jesus,” Patterson said. “He let her die.”

“It might be hard to prove,” Joe said, “but an autopsy might show that it wasn’t even the bullet that killed her. Maybe it was really bad care. Or maybe it was a dose of the drugs he’s selling to rich folks.

“Let me ask you a question,” Joe said. “That morning I walked in on the two of you it seemed like you were having an argument. What was it about?”

“He was pissed at me,” Patterson said.

“Why?”

The man sighed. “Because I told him Sue had briefly regained consciousness and I’d apologized to her for what happened. I hoped she’d find it in her heart to forgive me, but I’ll never know. I’m not even sure she actually heard what I said, and she slipped back into sleep.”

“Did you tell her Dr. Arthur was the shooter?”

“Yes. I confessed everything.”

“So in a way,” Joe said, “you killed her.”

Patterson froze. “What?”

“Dr. Arthur didn’t want Sue to recover if she had that knowledge. He knew that if she lived, he might go down for this. So he made sure she’d never talk.”

“He should be next,” Patterson hissed. “He should be the one going to prison. My God—if he’s responsible for Sue’s death . . .”

“You both are,” Joe said.

Patterson turned his head and stared at Joe. His eyes were pleading. He was suddenly scared.

Joe drew his digital recorder out of his breast pocket and clicked it off. Patterson watched and said, “I forgot about that trick.”

“It isn’t a trick.”

Joe checked to make sure the device had worked by scrolling through the recording file and turning the audio on.

Patterson could be heard saying, “You know, it doesn’t seem like murder when it’s that far away. When you kill something so far from you that you can’t even see the target, it’s more like a game than a crime.”

Patterson winced. Then his eyebrows arched as he thought of something. “You didn’t read me my Miranda rights,” he said. “It isn’t on the tape.”

“I didn’t officially arrest you, either,” Joe said. “I’m simply detaining you for your safety and mine. I’m giving the arresting honors to Deputies Woods and Steck at the department. They’ll Mirandize you, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

Patterson sighed. “Technically, that won’t fly.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

*

OUTSIDE ON THE SIDEWALK, Joe kept behind Patterson and prodded him on toward his pickup. The county attorney was sobbing again. Big, racking sobs.

It was getting colder. Joe looked down the length of Main Street until it vanished in darkness beyond the street lamps. He could hear the river flowing like liquid muscle beneath the bridge. Far beyond the river, the rise of the foothills blacked out the bottom of the starry night sky.

From within the distant hills, he saw a tiny yellow blink of light that almost didn’t register at first. When it did, Joe had no more than a second to react. But when he reached out to shove Patterson aside, he was too late.

The bullet hit Patterson with a fleshy thunk. The man rocked back on his heels and stiffened, then fell hard to his side. His head hit the exterior brick wall of the hardware store on his way down.

Joe went down with him because he still had a grip on Patterson’s collar. Joe’s face was spattered with hot blood.

The crack of the rifle shot washed over them, the sound bouncing off the walls of downtown buildings. The crack was muted, likely because the shooter had used a suppressor.

Joe scrambled over Patterson, trying to see in the light of the street lamps where the man had been hit. Patterson’s body jerked and his feet thrashed. He was unable to reach for the hole in his throat because his hands were bound behind his back. His eyes were panicked and wide.

“I’ll get those off,” Joe said, rolling Patterson to his side so he could get at his hands. He fumbled in his pocket for the cuff keys, but he was shaking too hard to locate them. The exit wound in the back of Patterson’s neck pulsed blood.

By the time he found the keys, Duane Patterson was still and gone.

The second round smacked into the bricks inches above Joe’s head and the debris from the wall stung the side of his face and neck. He scrambled away from Patterson’s body and flattened himself facedown on the concrete of the sidewalk.