by JoAnn Ross
Will watched his missing son leap out of the truck, leaving the driver’s door open as he raced toward where Erin Gallagher lay.
“That’s a sealed-off crime scene,” Will yelled.
Ignoring the warning, as he had everything else his father had said to him, Josh vaulted the barrier of yellow tape.
All the way out here to the lake, Will had tried to think of where in the hell his rebellious teenage son might have taken off to. Any friends he might have been out with.
Not that the kid seemed to have that many friends, which wasn’t surprising if he was even half as surly at school as he was at home.
Back in Savannah, Will had busted a teenage prostitution ring. The surprising thing was that the kids had operated out of one of the city’s toniest neighborhoods. They drove Beemers, wore designer duds, and got their kicks selling their bodies to traveling salesmen and perverts from the burbs. When he’d busted the ring, they’d been clearing ten thousand bucks a month.
At the time he’d had nothing but scorn for their yuppie parents, who’d been too wrapped up in their own versions of the American dream to look around and notice their kids were in serious trouble.
But now, watching his son drop to his knees and puke his guts out, Will was forced to wonder if some of those parents had known something was going terribly wrong in their family, but hadn't a clue how to deal with it.
And couldn’t he freaking identify with that?
Because the idea hit too close to home, Will dragged his mind back to the icy crime scene and his distraught son, who’d wrapped his arms around himself as he rocked back and forth.
Had Whitney ever rocked their child? Will sincerely doubted it. Although their brief time together, when he’d been stationed at Parris Island marine base, had been spent mostly in bed, his son’s mother had certainly never appeared to be the Madonna type.
“Oh, God,” Josh moaned. “It’s all my fault.”
Which could mean a lot of things.
Will felt like a damn cop standing over his kid, who was now dry-heaving.
He was a damn cop. But he was also a dad.
He crouched down. “You okay?”
“How the fuck can I be okay?”
Red-rimmed eyes looked up at him. It was the first time his son had looked at him with anything other than, at the best, disdain. At the worst, naked scorn tilting dangerously toward hatred.
“After I killed Erin?”
Everything in Will went still.
Everything but his damn glitchy heart.
Shit, that’s what they all needed right now: the sheriff in charge of the town’s only murder investigation in over a decade destroying crime-scene evidence by passing out facedown in all that frozen blood.
He took a deep breath in an attempt to clear his spinning head.
“Get up.”
“I’m sick,” his son moaned.
“Tough.” Will reached down and curled his fingers around Josh’s upper arm, even as nerves tangled sickly in his own gut. “We have a saying you might not have heard down in la-la land.” He jerked his teenage son to his feet, where he swayed like an aspen in a hurricane. “Cowboy up.”
He began half-marching, half-dragging him away from the scene. “You have, unfortunately, just become a person of interest. Which in cop speak means we’re both up shit creek if you talk to me any more about this situation. So, I’m turning you over to my deputy, who’ll take you down to the station.”
“I’m going to jail?” Blue eyes looked the size of Frisbees in a complexion as white as new fallen snow.
‘You’re going in for questioning,” Will corrected. “But here’s the tricky part.”
His fingers dug into Josh’s arm, hard enough to make his eyes go even wider. But he did not, Will noticed with a tinge of parental pride, flinch.
“You will also not say a goddamn thing until your lawyer gets there.”
“I don’t have a lawyer.”
“Lucky for you, your father does.”
Paula Marshall was an old high school girlfriend. Widowed, with two kids of her own, she was engaged to Lonny Harper, former Evergreen High shortstop who’d returned to town after college and opened up an equine veterinary practice.
“It seems my son may have some information about Erin Gallagher’s death,” he informed Sam, who’d surreptitiously been watching them while putting away his camera.
“That so?” Will had always prided himself on being damn good at concealing his thoughts; Sam was even better.
“Apparently.” Will released Josh’s arm. “He’s agreed to go down to the station for questioning. But has requested an attorney.”
Sam rocked back on his heels. “That so?” he repeated, this time directing the question to Josh.
The father in Will wanted to slug Sam for making that end run around him, for seeing if, just maybe, the kid was naive enough to talk without lawyering up.
Unfortunately, the cop who’d busted that teenage prostitution ring knew he’d do exactly the same thing under similar circumstances.
Josh shot a desperate, what-do-I-do-now? look up at Will. Gone was the pierced, punk rebel who’d been driving him up a wall. In his place was a terrified sixteen-year-old kid. And rightfully so.
“He needs to hear it from you, Son,” Will advised.
“Yessir.” His Adam’s apple bobbed violently as he swallowed. “I want”—his voice cracked—“uh, a lawyer.”
“That’s your right,” Sam agreed mildly.
Although they’d had their problems these past months, Will was good at reading people. Any cop was, since all too often your life depended on it.
Every instinct he possessed told him that Josh would be more likely to sprout wings and go soaring off over the top of White Owl Mountain than kill anyone in cold blood. But by coming here tonight, and making that goddamn statement about having killed the girl, he’d landed himself smack in the middle of a murder investigation, and Will wouldn’t be doing his job if he just let his son walk away.
As he watched Sam and Josh head off across the lake toward Sam’s rig, Will’s heart took another unruly leap and began to wildly clatter against his rib cage.
Making a mental note to have someone bag whatever his son had thrown up—in case they’d have to match it with the contents of the dead girl’s stomach—he turned toward the parking lot.
No surprise, the KWIND van hadn’t moved.
Having spent so many years undercover, when having his face land on the news could’ve gotten him killed,
Will had never liked reporters. Having to make any kind of deal with them grated even worse.
At least, being from the radio, they didn’t have a video camera. Fortunately, Hazard was too small for its own television station, and by the time those vultures from Cheyenne, Casper, and Laramie showed up, he should have the crime scene cleared so Erin Gallagher's parents wouldn’t be seeing shots of their murdered daughter’s body on their TVs.
Which was, he told himself as he reluctantly headed toward the van, something to be grateful for.
12
What were the odds of the first murder in decades taking place just when Sal Sasone happened to arrive in Hazard?
It had to be a coincidence, Faith assured herself. There was no reason for Sal to have murdered Erin. She was the one he’d threatened to kill. She was the one he’d tracked to Hazard.
The ironic thing was if the sheriff had been anyone else, she might have gone to him about Sal being in town. But what could she say, really? That a bounty hunter she’d been hiding from for eighteen months had called the station? Where was the crime in that?
There was also the undeniable fact that she’d broken the law. Several laws, actually. Oh, she may have had a valid reason, but did she really want to get into all that with Will Bridger? Especially right now when the most important thing he should be concentrating on was finding Erin Gallagher’s murderer?
He may have lived all those years in the South, but Mr.
Tall, Dark, and Arrogant still had the purposeful, long-legged cowboy stride down pat. All he needed to complete the gunslinger image was a pair of pearl-handled Colt revolvers hanging low on his hips.
“If you’re waiting around for some live-at-five sound bite, you might as well pack it in,” he said.
“What about Josh?” Faith asked, putting thoughts of Sal aside for now. With most of the law enforcement officers in town at the lake, it wasn’t as if he’d be able to get away with anything if he did show up. “What’s he got to do with all this?”
“I’m not going to comment on an ongoing investigation.”
“Is your deputy taking him home?” She paused a beat when Will’s brows dove down to a strong blade of a nose she remembered him telling her had been broken during a high school football game. “Or to jail?”
His stony face gave nothing away. But because she was watching him so carefully, and because, like it or not, she seemed to still be tuned into him emotionally, Faith saw the shadow move across his inscrutable eyes.
“It appears Josh may have been the last person, other than the killer, to see the victim alive. Deputy Charbonneaux is going to take his statement.”
“Are you saying the boy’s a suspect?” Mike asked.
“I’m saying that Deputy Charbonneaux will be taking his statement.” From the way Will kept rubbing his chest, Faith suspected he was clearly uncomfortable. “Because of the ongoing investigation, I’d also appreciate you keeping that under your hats until he completes his interview—”
“Interview?” Faith switched into news mode. “Or interrogation?”
The discomfort was instantly replaced with overt irritation. As she’d discovered the hard way, Will Bridger was a man used to calling the shots. Well, wasn’t that just too damn bad?
“Interview.” He looked annoyed enough to chew nails and spit out staples. “As you may or may not know, the first forty-eight hours is critical in a case like this. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to impede the investigation.”
“Of course not,” Faith agreed quickly. “People need to know if there’s a killer on the loose in Hazard, but we can hold back reporting on the interview for the next few hours.”
“I appreciate that.”
She could tell that admission cost him. Actually, this conversation was costing her, as well.
“I also don’t want the victim’s name released until we can notify her parents,” he said.
“I’m more than willing to give you time to do that. But given that there’s nothing in the law that prevents me from going on the air with what I know, it only seems fair that I receive something in return.” After all, he owed her.
“Let me guess. You’re angling for an exclusive.”
“Let’s just call it a head start. A bit of lead time that’ll allow me to break the story before your press briefing.”
He cursed beneath his breath. Rubbed his unshaven chin.
“I’d like to point out that you appear to have a body but no suspect,” she said when he didn’t immediately respond. “Unless your son fits that category?”
“No.” He’d begun rubbing his chest again. “He doesn’t.”
She glanced over at the two men with Desiree Douchet. “Are those witnesses? Could you share their names?”
“I don’t know how it worked in the last place you worked, Ms. Prescott, but here in Hazard, the sheriff’s office isn’t an information-gathering agency for the press. You’re the newshound. Seems you should be able to ferret that information out.”
Faith struggled for patience. Blew out a breath. “When will you be willing to talk with me?”
“Be at my office at eight o’clock. Sharp.”
Good move, Faith acknowledged. He undoubtedly knew her show ran from midnight to 4 a.m. For Mike and her to make that interview, they’d either have to stay up all night or get by on less than four hours’ sleep.
Well, she’d wanted to get back into news. And, unfortunately, criminals didn’t exactly work bankers’ hours.
But, as much as she hated to give him credit for anything, Will was right about the forty-eight-hour rule. If the police couldn’t crack a case within the first two days after the crime, there was a good chance it would go unsolved.
And Erin deserved better than that.
Her emotions under control again, she nodded. “Eight o’clock.”
He gave her a long, measured look.
Then, without another word, he turned and strode back toward the brightly lit crime scene.
The man watched the events unfold amidst the beehive of activity with interest.
He hadn’t expected Sheriff Bridger to be so competent. So totally in charge of both himself and the situation. Gossip around town had him a burned-out head case who’d run back to his hometown like a cowardly dog with his tail between his legs after a cop shooting had gone wrong down in Savannah.
Apparently those rumors were, if not wrong, at least exaggerated.
And wasn’t that just interesting?
He’d learned at a young age that the world was divided into two types of individuals. There were predators. And prey.
He’d been born a predator. Surprisingly, it appeared that just perhaps Will Bridger had, as well.
Which, following that line of thought, would make him the sheriff’s quarry.
Hmm.
That certainly changed the game.
Hunter/quarry.
Predator/prey.
The two were intrinsically entwined. Yin and yang. One couldn’t exist without the other.
But, in the end, one of them would die. The other would live.
As he watched the teen vomiting just feet from the lifeless body of the slain girl, the man who’d been raised by wolves smiled.
He’d always loved the hunt.
13
The sheriff’s office was located on the second floor of the hundred-year-old courthouse, next door to the fire station. The acrid scent of burning coffee and stale cigarette smoke hit Josh’s nostrils and set his gut to churning again the moment he walked in the door.
Earlene Spoonhunter, the night dispatcher, who Josh figured had to be at least as old as the building, glanced up from the afghan she was crocheting. Her eyes, as black and bright as a raven’s, gave nothing away.
“The sheriff called,” she informed Sam in a flat Western tone as expressionless as her gaze. “Seems a tourist swerved to miss a fool sledder crossing the road, hit some black ice, and ran his rental SUV into a tree. He ended up with a broken arm and some bums from the air bag; Will’s taking the guy to the hospital and figured he should be here in about thirty minutes.”
“Well, we’re sure as hell not going anywhere,” Sam said. He opened a side door, gesturing Josh into a small room. “Have a seat, kid. Can I get you something? Maybe some coffee to warm up? Or a can of pop?”
Josh had seen enough cop movies to know the drill. The trick was to bond with the suspect by offering him something to eat or drink. Get him off guard, so he’d spill the beans. The thing was, Josh didn’t have any beans to spill.
“I wouldn’t turn down a 7UP.”
“Don’t have any 7UP. How about a Mountain Dew?”
Josh shrugged. “Sure.”
“I’ll be right back.”
The deputy, who made the old lady in front seem outright chatty, shut the door behind him, leaving Josh alone in a room with a brown metal table and four battered wooden chairs that looked as if they’d been retrieved from the Dumpster behind the Salvation Army.
There was a mirror on the wall. Suspecting he was being watched from the other side, Josh slumped down into a chair and, resisting the urge to rub his clammy, cold hands together to warm them, folded his arms across his chest.
He felt the aloneness come crashing down like a huge stone onto his shoulders. Felt the dark weight of it inside him.
He’d always felt alone. Most of the time he’d managed to convince himself he’d gotten used to it. Preferred it. He was
also a world-class liar; especially when he was lying to himself.
This wasn’t his first time in police custody. He’d been “detained” once for shoplifting a leather L.A. Lakers jacket by the security guard at the Nordstrom South Bay Galleria in Redondo Beach.
A call to that year’s stepfather, who was conveniently the managing partner in a Century City law firm, had made the problem disappear, and after receiving an apology from the store manager for the “misunderstanding,” Josh had been on his way.
He’d also been picked up a few times in roundups of kids at an after-hours club in Westwood, but none of those times had been anything like this.
This was serious shit. If he didn’t manage to convince that stone-faced Indian deputy that he didn’t know anything about what had happened to Erin, he could end up in a cell.
Not just a cell. He could go to prison, where motherfucker, baby-raper gang members were just waiting for a shiny new ass to ream.
Fuck. Sweat began to roll down Josh’s back.
At the same time he began to shiver, and although he fought against it, trying to clench his jaw, his teeth began to chatter like castanets.
His head was spinning, and although there couldn’t be anything left in his stomach, he was hit with a greasy nausea that made him feel on the verge of hurling again.
The last time he’d felt this rotten was after he’d gotten some bad ecstasy at a rave. When he’d started imagining that the other dancers were sharks trying to eat him, the girl he’d been with had gotten scared enough to take him to the hospital, where the ER doctor had stuck a saline drip in his arm. By the next morning the hallucinations were gone and he was feeling okay again.
Josh had the scary feeling that it would take a lot more than fluids and a night’s sleep to rid his mind of the images of Erin, covered in her own dark red blood, her pretty white throat cut all the way to the bone.
14
The streets were dark, the store-fronts shuttered, as Will drove to the jail after delivering that tourist who’d been injured in the accident to the ER.
