'What are we going to do?'
He kept shaking his head. 'Why won't he talk to me?'
Sara did not volunteer the obvious answer.
He said, 'Luke Swan could have been going for him. His body was only a few feet away.'
'Probably three or four feet.'
'Robert pushed him,' Jeffrey said. 'Swan would have been crouched or on his knees.'
'Could have been.'
She could hear the strain in his voice as he tried to explain it all away. 'Swan could have heard Robert getting his gun. He moved toward him. Maybe he held his gun up and in front of him.' Jeffrey illustrated, holding out his hand, his fingers in the shape of a gun. 'He shot Robert, then Robert shot him.'
Sara tried to see the holes in his theory. 'It's possible.'
His relief was palpable. 'Let's see what the autopsy says, okay? We'll just keep this to ourselves until then. The autopsy will show what happened.'
'Did you ask if I could sit in?'
'Hoss wants you to do the exam.'
'All right.'
'Sara . . .'
'I'm already packed,' she said, standing. 'As soon as it's finished, I want to leave.' Then, to make herself clear, she said, 'I want to go home.'
TEN
1:32 P.M.
The ringing telephone grated like nails on a blackboard. Sara's hearing started to play tricks on her, the ringing fading in and out like a retreating police car. To pass the time, she would count the seconds between rings, sometimes losing count, sometimes sure that it had stopped, only to hear the startling bell again. And it was a bell, not the usual computer-generated bleep from the digital phones. The black telephone was so old Sara was surprised that it did not have a rotary dial. It didn't have any sleek lines or shiny buttons. Between cell phones and cordless phones and the digitization of noise, she had almost forgotten what a real telephone sounded like.
She used the back of her hand to wipe sweat off her lip. The heat from outside had started encroaching on the poorly ventilated squad room from the moment the power was cut. Now, over an hour later, the air was heavy, almost suffocating. To make matters worse, the bodies scattered around the room were starting to smell.
Brad's uniform shirt and pants were off, stuffed into the air-conditioning grates by Smith, probably to block prying eyes on the part of the police. Brad sat in his white boxer shorts and black socks, his embarrassment long past. Smith trusted Brad for some reason and he was the only one of them allowed any sort of freedom. Sara had sneaked him Jeffrey's wallet while he was taking the girls to the bathroom. She had no idea where he had hidden it. Her only hope was that he had done it well.
Stress had finally drained two of the remaining little girls, and they both slept with their heads in Brad's lap. Marla sat at a distance from the group, her mouth open, staring blankly at the floor. Sara was terrified the older woman would have another fit and tell Smith Jeffrey's true identity. She realized with cold clarity that if a choice had to be made, she would do whatever she needed to do to protect Jeffrey.
She leaned her head against the wall, allowing herself to look at Smith. He was pacing again, muttering under his breath. He had taken off his coat and she could see that every inch of his body was built, the muscles of his arms and shoulders bulging under his short-sleeved T-shirt. A huge blue tattoo of an eagle covered his right bicep, and on every second pass he took across the room Sara tried to decipher the words underneath to no avail.
Like his accomplice, he wore thick nighttime camouflage pants with his combat boots. The Kevlar vest must have felt like a straitjacket in this heat, but he kept it strapped tightly to his chest. Animal aggression sweated from Smith's every pore, but it was the second shooter, the quiet one, who scared Sara most. He was the one who followed orders, who did whatever he was told to do, whether it was to shoot at small children or blow a hole through a police officer's head. This personality type was hardly uncommon among young men – the military actively recruited for it – but adding Smith to the mixture made him even more volatile. If something happened to Smith, the second shooter was a wild card. Cut off the head of the scorpion and the tail could still sting.
Jeffrey stirred in Sara's lap, and she put her hand on his good shoulder to still him, saying, 'It's all right.'
He rubbed his eyes like a sleepy child. A fold in the material of her dress had creased his face, and she wanted nothing more than to kiss the line away.
'What time is it?'
She looked at her watch. 'Half past one,' she told him, stroking his hair off his forehead. 'Do you remember where we are?'
He took a deep breath, then let it go. 'I was dreaming about the first time I really made love to my wife.'
Sara pressed her lips together. She wanted so much to be back in that place that tears came to her eyes.
He continued, 'We were in the house where I grew up, on the floor in my room . . .'
'Shh,' she shushed, not wanting him to say too much.
He understood, but he closed his eyes for a moment like he did not want to let the memory go. When he opened his eyes again, Sara could tell how much pain he was in. Still, he did not complain about his wounds. Instead, he told her, 'Goddamn phone is driving me crazy.'
'I know,' she said, illogically wishing they would just unplug it if they were not going to answer. She waited for the next ring to finish before asking, 'Are you in much pain?'
He shook his head no, but she knew he was lying. Sweat poured off his body, and not just from the heat. The wound had clotted, but the blood could be pooling on the inside. His arm was cold to the touch, the pulse still thready. She guessed the bullet was between a torn artery and a nerve. Whenever Jeffrey moved, the nerve pinched, causing shooting pains that must be unbearable. Any movement also brought the risk of dislodging the bullet. Because the wound was so high up, she could not apply a tourniquet. The only thing keeping him from bleeding out was the pressure from the bullet. If he didn't get help soon, Sara did not know how much longer he could hold on.
'I was thinking,' she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, 'how much you . . .' She looked at Smith, but he was talking to his accomplice. 'How much has changed,' she said. He was so different from the man she had first fallen in love with, yet so much about him was the same. Time had done nothing but smooth his character, polishing it like a stone.
'Where are they?' he asked, trying to sit up.
She pressed gently on his shoulder and he stayed where he was. The fact that he had so little fight in him was alarming. 'They're in the front,' she said. 'They have Allison.'
'Ruth Lippman's daughter?' he asked, managing to raise his head. She let him see the girl before gently pushing him back down. Allison sat on the front counter, her legs dangling in the air. There was a long gash down the front of her shin where she'd slid down the sidewalk after attempting a particularly silly stunt on her bicycle last week. Sara had put in two sutures and extracted a promise in exchange for a lollipop that the little girl would be more careful the next time.
Smith had stopped pacing and was standing beside Allison, his shotgun in the crook of his arm. On the other side of the girl stood the second shooter, his rifle resting on the counter, still pointing toward the front door. Smith watched them carefully, and Sara knew that he could hear everything they said.
She told Jeffrey, 'I'm worried about your arm.'
'It's okay,' he said, trying to sit up again.
'Don't,' she told him, then, 'Please. You shouldn't move any more than you have to.'
Jeffrey must have heard the concern in her voice because he stopped struggling.
He asked, 'Have they said what they want?'
She shook her head, trying not to make eye contact with Smith. Sara had worked in pediatrics most of her life. Even though Smith was not a child, he had all the markings of a twenty-something-year-old who had not quite grown up. She knew how aggressive young men could behave when they were challenged, especially if there was someone around to i
mpress. She did not want to get shot in a case of one-up between Smith and his friend.
Jeffrey shifted to get more comfortable, and she prayed he wouldn't do any more damage to his arm. He lowered his voice, asking, 'One of them seemed to know you. Do you recognize him?'
She shook her head again, wishing to God she could tell him she knew exactly who the two shooters were and why they were here. She had moved back to Grant from Atlanta almost fifteen years ago, and would surely remember Smith if he had been a patient. Then, if Smith was a patient she could not recall, why was he here to kill Jeffrey? Or was he here on orders from his friend? Sara craned her neck, trying to get a better look at the second man. His ball cap was pulled low to hide his face, but the flash of sunlight coming in from the partially open front door showed Sara his eyes. They were empty, like a stagnant pool of water.
Sara realized Smith was watching her stare at his buddy, and she forced herself to smile at Allison. The little girl was slumped against the back of the counter with her skirt bunched up around her knees. Tears streamed down her face. Ruth Lippman had been Sara's tenth-grade English teacher. The woman was a perfect combination of tough and challenging, and Sara had loved her for it.
'He doesn't have much of an accent,' Jeffrey said, and he was right. There was a definite Southern twang when Smith let his temper get out of control, but for the most part, he spoke in the flat, unaccented English of a military brat. Or, maybe Sara was just making that fit the mold. For all she knew, he could be a wanna-be, someone whose father had been career military, but whose own criminal record or psychological profile had washed him out of the military before he even made it to his first week of boot camp.
Jeffrey closed his eyes.
'Why don't you try to sleep?'
'I shouldn't,' he said, but his eyelids fluttered and stilled.
Sara looked up at Smith, who had taken all this in with a watchful eye. She tried to keep her voice strong, but couldn't suppress the tremor in her voice. 'He needs medical attention. Please let him leave.'
Smith twisted his lips to the side as if he was actually considering her request. Beside him, the second shooter shifted. He said something under his breath and Smith walked over to the phone and picked it up mid-ring.
He said, 'We'll trade the old lady for sandwiches and bottled water. None of it better be fucked with. We can test it.' He listened to the response, his head to the side. 'No, I don't think so.' There was another pause, and Smith turned around, facing Allison. He held the phone in front of her face and Sara sensed he was smiling at her. She willed the girl not to trust him, but she saw Allison smile back just before Smith pinched her leg. Allison screamed, and Smith put the phone back to his ear.
He gave a steely laugh. 'That's right, lady. We're gonna hold on to the kids.' He turned back around, his eyes scanning the remaining hostages. 'We want some beer, too.'
His partner's head jerked around, and Sara got the impression that Smith had deviated from the script. So, she thought, maybe Smith wasn't completely in charge of this after all.
Smarting from the reprimand, Smith took his anger out on the person at the other end of the phone. 'One hour, bitch. You take any longer than that, the body count's gonna get a lot higher.'
ELEVEN
Monday
Sara drove to the funeral home, Jeffrey giving her directions from the passenger seat. Normally, she liked to have time alone before an autopsy to get a sense of the task in front of her, but there was no time for that luxury. She had called her mother before they left Nell's and told Cathy she would be back home in Grant that evening.
'Here,' Jeffrey said, indicating a long U-shaped building on the side of the highway. Nothing else was around except a small flower shop across the road. Eighteen-wheelers stirred the hot air as Sara got out of the car. In the distance, there was a grumble of thunder, which perfectly reflected her mood.
She winced as she stepped onto the asphalt, a loose rock digging through the thin sole of her sandals.
Jeffrey asked, 'You okay?' and she nodded, walking toward the entrance.
Paul, the deputy who had taken her to Nell's last night, stood at the doorway smoking a cigarette. He stubbed it on the side of the trash can and left it in the sand on top.
'Ma'am,' he said, opening the door for Sara.
'Thank you,' Sara answered, noticing the suspicious look the deputy gave Jeffrey.
Jeffrey asked, 'Where are they?'
When he answered, he looked at Sara instead of Jeffrey. 'They're down that hall in the back.'
The deputy walked between them as they headed toward the back of the building, and Sara could hear his keys jangling and the leather of his gun belt squeaking with every step. The funeral home was almost institutional, with painted cinder-block walls and fluorescent lighting giving a yellow cast to everything. Sara could smell embalming fluid and some sort of air freshener that might have been pleasant in a living room or office but here was almost sickening.
Paul indicated, 'Through here,' reaching ahead of her to open the door at the end of the hall. She chanced a look at Jeffrey, but he was staring past her into the room, his jaw set. Embalming equipment surrounded a concave metal table where the body had been placed. Covering the dead man was a clean white sheet, the edges blowing gently in the breeze generated by a loud window air-conditioning unit. The air was so cold it was stifling.
'Hey there,' Hoss said, holding out his hand to Sara. She went to shake it, too late realizing he meant to put his hand on her elbow and guide her into the room. Sara knew that men of Hoss's generation generally did not shake hands with women unless it was in jest. Her grandfather Earnshaw, whom she dearly loved, was the same way.
Hoss introduced her to the men in the room. 'This is Deacon White, the funeral director.' A rotund, dour man with a receding hairline gave Sara a curt nod. 'That's Reggie Ray.' Hoss indicated the second deputy who had been at Robert's house last night. The young man still had a camera around his neck, and Sara wondered if he slept with it.
'Slick,' Hoss said, addressing Jeffrey. 'Don't think I mentioned this last night – Reggie's Marty Ray's boy.'
'That so?' Jeffrey said, without much interest. Still, he offered the other man his hand. Reggie seemed reluctant to take it, and Sara wondered again why the deputies were so cagey around him.
Hoss said, 'Got Robert's statement this morning,' and Sara saw the surprised look on Jeffrey's face. 'Neighbors pretty much backed up his story.'
Sara waited for Jeffrey to ask what Robert had said, but he stared at the floor instead.
After a few moments of awkward silence, Deacon White indicated a door behind Sara. 'We keep our protective clothing in the storage room. You're welcome to anything we have.'
'Thank you,' Sara told him, getting a solemn nod in return. She wondered if the man was annoyed she was taking over. Grant County's funeral director had been a childhood friend of Sara's and more than happy to relinquish the responsibility of town coroner, but Deacon White was a lot harder to read.
She walked over to the storage room, which was little more than a glorified closet. Still, she shut the door. The moment she did, the men started talking. She could hear Hoss's deep baritone mixing with Paul's. From what she could gather, they were discussing a recent basketball game at the high school.
Sara opened a surgical gown and slipped it on, feeling foolish as she spun like a dog chasing its tail trying to tie the back. The gown was huge on her, obviously meant for Deacon White's pronounced midsection. By the time she had slipped on a pair of paper shoes and a hair protector, Sara felt like a clown.
She put her hand on the door, but did not open it. Closing her eyes, she tried to block out all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Focusing on her belief that Robert's wound was self-inflicted might shadow her findings during the autopsy, and Sara wanted to make certain she only went with known facts. She was not a detective. Her task now was to give her professional opinion to the police and let them decide how to
proceed. The only thing she could control was how well she performed her job.
The men grew quiet as she walked back into the room. She thought she saw a smile on Paul's face, but he looked back down at his notebook, writing something with a well-chewed nub of pencil. Deacon White stood by the body, and Jeffrey and Hoss both leaned against the wall with their arms crossed over their chests. Reggie was by the sink, his camera gleaming in the light. An air of expectancy filled the room, but despite this, Sara got the distinct impression that this was merely a case of going through the motions.
Still, she asked, 'Where are the X rays?'
Deacon exchanged a look with Hoss before saying, 'We don't normally do X rays.'
Sara tried to cover her shock, knowing how it would look to come into their backyard and start treating them like a bunch of yokels. X rays were standard procedure for an autopsy, but they were especially important when dealing with a head wound. The bullet punched out bone as it entered the skull, and X rays of bone chips would provide conclusive evidence of the path the bullet had taken. Excising the wound could distort the path or even create false tracks.
She asked, 'Have you found the bullet?'
'From his head?' Reggie asked, sounding surprised. 'I got two twenty-twos out of the walls. I didn't find anything near his head except for . . . head.'
'The bullet could still be in there,' Sara told him.
Hoss cleared his throat politely before saying, 'Maybe ol' Reg here missed it on his sweep through the room. I'm sure we'll find it when we look again.'
Reggie seem to bristle a bit at this, but he had regained his composure by the time Hoss looked his way. He gave the sheriff a slight shrug as if to say it could happen.
Sara tried to phrase her words carefully. 'Sometimes, brain tissue can slow a bullet down enough so that it has insufficient velocity to exit the skull.'
Hoss pointed out, 'The right side of his head has been blown out.'
'That could be from a fracture.' Knowing the policeman's ammunition of choice, she made an educated guess, asking Reggie, 'We're talking a nine-millimeter hollow-point, I would assume?'