Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel)

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Bitter Crossing (A Peyton Cote Novel) Page 32

by D. A. Keeley


  She was ten feet to McAfee’s right. Her hands were pinned behind her. She leaned back against the wall and used the wall to force her right arm closer to the pouch on her belt.

  “You trying to squeeze behind the sofa? Get over here. Now!”

  A board creaked outside on the back steps.

  She pushed away from the wall and shuffled on her knees toward McAfee. When she was close enough, she lunged forward and pressed the top of the pepper-spray canister. She felt it soaking her hair but knew at least some had gotten airborne.

  Picard whined and McAfee, blinking, pointed his .357 at Peyton just as the shotgun boomed again. McAfee spun to his left, as if pushed, and lay motionless on the floor.

  But the rumble of the shotgun had been immediately followed by the snap of a .40-caliber handgun, and Scott Smith was down.

  “Jesus Christ,” Pam Morrison said.

  Peyton lay flat on the floor and saw her in the doorway.

  “Jesus Christ,” she said again. “Scott, I didn’t want to do that. Think. Slow down. Think. Okay.”

  Moving to the center of the cabin, Morrison took her cell phone from a cargo-pants pocket, dialed, and gave her location.

  “Shots fired,” she said. “Two agents down. EMTs needed.”

  She hung up, slid the phone back into her pocket, and stood over Peyton, her .40 hanging loosely at her side.

  “I really didn’t want it to come to this, for either of you. Morris, you know that, right? And, Peyton, you, too? You’re a good mother. I meant it when I said that. I just wanted what you have. That’s all. Alan let the operation get too big. And this just got out of hand. And now …”

  She raised the .40.

  Instinct took over, and Peyton turned her face away from the .40’s barrel, and she tried to crawl away on her stomach.

  Then one final shotgun blast echoed throughout the cabin.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  “I OUGHT TO BE giving Kevlar vests out as Christmas presents,” Mike Hewitt said and held up Scott Smith’s, which had a dime-sized hole high on the left side. “You guys probably have matching chest bruises.”

  “We haven’t compared,” Peyton said, smiling.

  “That vest saved my life,” Smith said. “I’ve worn one every day for years, and today was the day.”

  “She wasn’t a good shot,” Hewitt said. “Probably didn’t want to risk a head shot.”

  “I was lucky she didn’t follow it up.”

  “Pam Morrison didn’t have it in her,” Peyton said. “She was a pre-K teacher before joining. Probably had her eyes closed when she pulled the trigger.”

  “She was no Tyler Timms, that’s for sure,” Smith said. “That bastard would kick you to death if he had to.”

  “Either way,” Hewitt said. “You were very lucky.”

  “And brave as hell,” Peyton said. “I wouldn’t be going home to my little boy if it wasn’t for you, Scott. Thank you.”

  He just nodded.

  It had taken all afternoon to process the shooting scene. Peyton had seen four body bags leave in a stream of ambulances, none of which had lights flashing, the moments of urgency long gone. A dive team had yet to find Jerry Reilly and would return at dawn.

  “How was the meeting with ICE officials?” Hewitt said.

  “Tough,” Smith said.

  “Long,” Peyton said. “All along,” she said to Smith, “I thought you were the one on the inside.”

  “And I was looking at you, too.”

  “Would’ve been easier,” Hewitt said, “if I’d told you Pam Morrison was the one pushing the shooting investigation. But I couldn’t do that. You understand that, I hope.”

  “To a degree.”

  “Peyton, I can show you the documentation. She said you busted Kenny Radke on the border and were blackmailing him to use him as an informant. We were looking into that accusation when you shot him.”

  She looked away. “That was true, Mike.”

  “What?”

  “I caught him with a dime bag and turned him. That wasn’t why I killed him. And that wasn’t why he shot at me. He was trafficking babies and didn’t want to go back to Warren.”

  “I know that,” Hewitt said, “but I wish to hell you hadn’t told me the rest of it.”

  “I won’t lie to you,” Peyton said.

  “Let’s change the subject,” Smith said. “Mike told me about Pam’s accusations. I started looking into them.”

  “That’s how you followed us. That was you in the black pickup?”

  He smiled. “I’d been looking for an excuse to get a new truck.”

  Linda Cyr entered the room with a sandwich platter and set it on Hewitt’s desk. “Here you go,” she said, leaned forward, and kissed each agent.

  “Thanks, Mom,” Smith said teasingly.

  “You’re welcome.”

  They ate in silence for a while.

  Peyton sighed. “All she wanted was a baby.”

  “Quite a way to get one,” Hewitt said. “According to Morris Picard, who literally pissed himself on the cabin floor, they did this for several years.”

  “What happens to the kids?” Peyton asked.

  “Someone at the federal level will look for them and try to return them to their families in England.”

  “They don’t have families. That was the point—they were or-

  phans.”

  “Jesus, Peyton, after all you’ve been through, you’re not siding with McAfee on this, are you?”

  “No. But it isn’t black-and-white, Mike. Where’s Autumn?”

  “On a flight back here from New Mexico.”

  “You found her?”

  He nodded.

  “Is she going to DHHS?”

  “I guess so. We can’t find Celia, and we probably won’t, if she doesn’t want to be found.”

  “She might’ve realized just how unstable Jonathan was,” Peyton said, “and took off. My mother said he had ‘crazy eyes.’ I always thought he was mean. Now I wonder if his problems ran deeper than that.”

  “He was a convicted drug dealer,” Hewitt said.

  “You need to speak to Elise, Mike. She wants the baby. She’ll be calling you.”

  “Really?” Smith said. “The baby from her late husband’s affair?”

  “That’s right.”

  Hewitt leaned forward. “And what if Celia shows up and wants her back? Your sister could take this infant in, raise her for five years, and lose her if Celia shows up.”

  “She knows that. Wants to help the baby. And she has some claim to Autumn.”

  “Technically, she’s the stepmother,” Hewitt said. “We’ll get Susan Perry involved.” He looked at his watch. “Not much of a dinner, but it’s been a long day. Go home.”

  Outside, the night sky was overcast, and Peyton’s breath came in puffs, but there was no snow in the forecast.

  “Hey, Peyton,” Smith said.

  She was reaching for the Wrangler door and turned back.

  “Have plans tonight?”

  “Got a date tonight,” she said. “Big date. He’s quite a catch. You’ve seen him play soccer.”

  Smith smiled. “Get out of here and enjoy your night.”

  “You too,” she said.

  When she got home, Elise and Lois met her at the door. She assured them she was fine and climbed the stairs to Tommy’s room.

  The twin mattress was small, but she found room and lay beside him, wrapping her arm around him. She couldn’t help herself. She gave him a gentle squeeze.

  “Mom?” His eyes blinked open.

  “Do you know you have a mother who loves you?”

  “Yes, Mom. How come you woke me up? You say it all the time.”

  She rolled onto her back. “And probably not enough,” she said and closed her eyes.

  About the Author

  D.A. Keeley (United States) has published widely in the crime-fiction genre and is the author of six other novels, as well as short stories and essays. In additio
n to being a teacher and department chair at a boarding school and a member of the Mystery Writers of America, Keeley writes a biweekly post for the blog Type M for Murder.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Information

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  About the Author

 

 

 


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