She wanted at the very least to join the other officers evacuating the mourners, but she could not leave the woman still crumpled by her husband on the ground.
She knelt by her. “What’s your name, ma’am?” she said. “I’m Detective Madison, Alice Madison.” She used her title because her training told her that it would be reassuring under the circumstances. The circumstances, though, were pretty fucked up, Madison thought.
The woman turned, startled—as if she had forgotten that the officer was there.
“Lee Edwards,” she replied.
“Lee? May I call you Lee? Can I just make sure you’re not injured?”
The woman nodded vaguely.
Madison took stock: there was blood on the woman’s green coat, but it was not hers. She needed to get her somewhere warm, or she’d go into shock right there next to her dead husband.
“Madison . . .”
A hand touched her shoulder and Madison recoiled—she had not heard the steps approaching behind her. Sorensen had brought Dr. Lynch and a woman they had never met, who turned out to be one of the nurses at the medical center. Together they persuaded Mrs. Edwards to leave her husband, Ty, and guided her toward cover, where the doctor would examine her and—Madison had no doubt—prescribe her a mild sedative.
“What the hell is going on?” Sorensen blurted out when they were alone, putting into words the question that had been in Madison’s mind since the first muzzle flash.
Madison shook her head. She wanted Brown back out of the forest: something in her partner’s tone when he’d intimated she should stay behind had bothered her, and she wouldn’t be capable of any in-depth appreciation of the predicament they were in until he was back safe.
“His name is Ty Edwards. The woman is his wife, Lee, and that,” Madison pointed, “is their poodle, Tucker.”
“She was the one who waited for the chief at the station yesterday.”
“Yes. Hockley called the dog eagle bait. He was right, though not about the eagle part.”
“More than ever, then,” Sorensen said as she crouched by the body and started her examination, “see my previous and as yet unanswered question.”
What the hell is going on?
Brown emerged from the line of trees and shook his head. Madison nodded and only then replaced the Glock in its holster.
It took three attempts to fit the key in the front-door lock of the Miller house. Madison shut it behind her, ran up to the bathroom next to her attic room, and closed the door.
Her hands were shaking and in the mirror she saw a pale face with a smudge of red. Her eyes were wide with shock and upset. It was not fear—she was not afraid then, and she had not been afraid before—but the life of a man who had been within the reach of her hand had been stolen away in an instant, and it was a body blow.
She didn’t know him. She barely knew his name. Ty Edwards, married to Lee. What was he saying to his wife just before the first shot? It’s okay, sweetheart, I’ll go get him. How much life together, how much love and days and years were in those words?
One moment he was with her, and then he was not.
Madison reached for a tissue and wiped off the blood. It’s okay, sweetheart. She felt the tear rolling down her cheek and wiped that off too.
She sat on the edge of the bath and waited until her hands had stopped shaking. There was work to do, the work that no one else but they could do. Madison splashed her face with cold water and returned to the empty square.
Chapter 20
Miles from Ludlow, a boy crouched in a small cave. A fire—without smoke, because the boy knew better than that—warmed the air up a little and the boy’s outstretched hands craved the waning heat. Samuel had wrapped the old blanket around his shoulders and his back rested against the stone.
The sun had come out, and the deep indigo he had rushed through when he had left the cabin earlier that morning had turned into washed-out blue. A shard of light cut through the cave’s shadows and fell on the rough walls.
In the last three years he had spent time in the cave in every season and in every weather, and he had seen the light change as the months progressed. Samuel did not have a word for the streak of warm color—a lighter shade than blood, but more intense and darker than yellow—that sliced through the grayish wall. He only knew that it looked prettier in winter.
It had started out of boredom one day while he was waiting to hear the shots that signaled the end of the game: he had cut his hand on a broken branch in his run to get there; it was a small scratch but a few drops of blood still bubbled up on his palm. Samuel had smeared it on the flat of his hand and pressed it against the stone. The handprint was still there. Over the months he had used a twig and charcoal from the fire, spit, and occasionally blood: there were more handprints, which had grown larger as Samuel had grown taller; however, scattered around the ochre stripe there were, mostly, tiny stick figures with four legs and a tail and a long thin muzzle. They chased one another and ran together, in and out of the crevices in the stone. One minute, perfectly formed wolf for each time Samuel had been in the cave; for months now he had been the only living soul visiting it, and the stories that Cal had told him about watching the wolves on the mountains lived only on the stone.
Two shots rang out in rapid succession. They signified the end of the game; the hunters would be returning to the cabin. Samuel stood up. The game could last hours or, maybe, just give him enough time to get to the cave; they might play it out twice in a week or once in a month. That day it had gone on for hours and hours, so long that Samuel had fallen asleep twice. It depended on his father’s whim, and Samuel did not know the source of his father’s wisdom. They had a Bible in the cabin, and his father read to them, but Samuel didn’t remember anything about teaching your sons to hunt one another. Maybe it was in a chapter they hadn’t read yet.
Another set of two shots told him he could return safely home. There would be a pat on the back and extra food on his plate. Samuel dropped the blanket on the floor and stomped out the remains of the fire. His victory would be sweeter if he didn’t have the suspicion that his father would prefer him to fail.
The boy peeked around the hidden mouth of the cave. When he was content that the trail was clear, he started to make his way back. The light told him that it was midafternoon, and his stomach felt hollow with hunger.
He had been walking maybe ten minutes when something lifted him off the ground, turned him around in the air, and slammed his back against a tree.
His brother Luke held him by his coat and shirt, and Samuel’s feet struggled to find the ground.
“Here you are,” Luke said. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”
At twenty-five Luke was taller than their father and made out of bare muscle over bone. His face had never held the softness of youth but had seemed to pass from child to old man. His hands on Samuel felt as if the boy was gripped by the roots of a tree.
“I heard the shots,” the boy said. “I’m clear to go back.”
“I heard the shots after I grabbed you, little mouse.”
“No, I heard the shots . . .”
“Where do you go, little mouse, when you hide in the woods?”
Samuel clamped his mouth shut.
“Where do you hide? Under a rock? In a hole in the dirt?”
Samuel didn’t reply. Luke’s eyes were level with his and they were a hard bright blue.
“Tell me where you hide, little mouse, and I’ll let you go. If you don’t, you know what’s waiting for you.”
The punishment was harsher for the prey who got caught than for the hunters who had let him escape; and Samuel had always thought that this made sense, because their father was trying to teach them how to run when the enemy came for them. He thought of his punishment—it was winter, and it would be particularly tough. And he was already hungry. He thought of the cave, of the wolves in the cave waiting for him to go back. The decision was surprisingly easy.
“I hear
d the shots,” he said. “You have to let me go.”
Luke swung him away from the tree and began to march him back toward the cabin. “I’ve caught you and I’m keeping you,” he said.
Samuel didn’t speak. There was no point in arguing when you were being propelled forward and your feet barely touched the ground. He would tell his father, he thought, and even though a tiny voice told him which way his father would cast his vote, he had to believe he could convince him.
“Father won’t believe you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Luke said. “Like he never believed that little liar you followed around like a puppy.”
Samuel went rigid. “What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean?”
Their father had forbidden them from talking about Cal, because his older brother had abandoned them and chosen to live his life among beggars and thieves.
Luke shook Samuel as if he were nothing but empty clothes and whispered, “That little liar.”
The boy’s mind staggered as he looked for Luke’s meaning.
“What do you mean?” he repeated, and his voice cracked.
Luke smiled a nasty slash of a smile. He knew then that he had Samuel just where he wanted him. “Liar,” he whispered, and he said no more.
After a short walk they emerged from the forest into the open ground where the compound had been built. Samuel looked around. Some of the others had already returned: Jonah, the fourth son, who hardly ever spoke, and when he did was slow and hesitant; and Jesse, two years older than he was, Luke’s shadow. Were they going to be Samuel’s allies?
His father came out of the barn and the boy’s heart contracted when he saw the man’s eyes glitter at the sight of Luke holding him by the neck.
“Got him,” Luke said.
“You got me after the second shots,” Samuel bit back.
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“Only if you say you caught me.”
“I did catch you.”
“Then I guess you are a liar.”
“Don’t ever—”
“Let him go, Luke,” the father said.
Samuel found himself dumped on the ground, and he struggled to his feet.
“Why would Luke lie, Samuel?”
It was a question with a dozen answers, but the words danced in front of the boy’s eyes and he couldn’t get them out. “He’s lying,” he said.
His father seemed to think about it for a minute or two. Samuel noticed a couple of his younger sisters had come out of the cabin to watch—eyes wide, sensing danger in the air like rabbits.
“You are very good at this, Samuel,” his father said, and for a moment the boy dared to hope. “You are hardly ever caught. It is stubborn and disrespectful to deny your brother his victory. And to call him a liar, why, that’s worst of all.”
Samuel looked at his brothers: Jesse was almost giddy with the anticipation of his punishment, and Jonah was entirely blank. And yet, even in the moment when his fate hung in the balance, it was Luke’s words that upset him the most. That little liar.
Chapter 21
Jay Kupitz pressed the hat down on his head and pulled up his leather gloves. The screen that had been hastily erected around the body of Ty Edwards shivered in the breeze, and the deputy was ready to grab it and stop it from flying away. His eyes scanned the open space, lingering over the shadows and checking every movement in the distance. He had been left to guard the body and it was a weight that made him tight around the shoulders.
From time to time he stole a glance—more than anything to convince himself that what seemed to have happened had in fact happened. He had bought something in Mr. Edwards’s shop only a couple of weeks earlier—he couldn’t remember what now—and he couldn’t look away from the dark slick on the man’s chest and the white whiskers he had missed with the razor that morning. He wouldn’t have stared if anybody else was there. But he was alone, and so he looked.
A car engine rumbled on in the distance and the young man turned around quickly, looking away only when he saw it was a familiar pickup; soon Dr. Lynch would come with the chief in a different truck, and they would take Mr. Edwards away.
Jay Kupitz placed one hand on the butt of the weapon by his side and the other on the screen to hold it in place. That’s how they found him a few minutes later, and if they had been delayed a couple of hours he would have been there still.
When Chief Sangster had received Brown’s orders he had not paused to wonder at the cheek of the man who presumed to supersede him in his own town. He had merely gotten on with the task of moving a large group of people, who didn’t particularly want to be moved, out of harm’s way without causing panic—because a stampede would have been as lethal as a bullet.
At the other end of the open field Detective Madison’s shots had been sufficiently distant for the mourners to believe the dangerous-animal rumor, and the vigil had been cut short without too much fuss. After all, they’d had a cougar on Main Street the previous year.
Sangster’s instructions had been clear: go home, drive carefully, and keep your eyes open.
Most people had done just that; others had found solace in the Tavern and in the diner, while the ones who had been close enough to see the victim being shot were doing their level best to spread the news.
Still, the chief’s only concern had been to protect his people in the moment of danger; he had needed to get them away from the square and had managed it without so much as a sprained ankle.
He wasn’t looking forward to going to the radio station and making a statement. He didn’t know what he would say, really; the idea that a sniper had taken out old Ty Edwards who ran the hardware store seemed absurd. Nevertheless, that’s exactly what Detective Madison had seemed to imply. Sangster had stood over the victim, peered at the bullet shots, and even in his limited experience of homicides he couldn’t think that the grouping of the shots had been accidental.
The body—shit, the new body—was in the medical center and the whole dance with the medical examiner and the autopsy report was going to start all over again.
Sangster ran cold water in the sink and put his wrists under it. The neon lighting strip in the restroom of the police station flickered. He dried his hands with a paper towel. His face in the mirror looked sunken, which, as luck would have it, matched exactly how he was feeling, he thought. This was not why he had moved his family to Ludlow, this was not it at all.
The chief’s message was broadcast in the middle of the Saturday afternoon Golden Hits hour and was caught by everyone within reach of a radio. It would be repeated at regular intervals throughout the day and cut into the television news reports.
“A serious police incident has occurred in Ludlow’s main square during the vigil for Dr. Robert Dennen. It seems that an unbalanced person with a high-powered rifle has taken shots into the crowd from a hill above the town. There was one fatality. At this time we ask for the residents of Ludlow to shelter in place. Stay in your home, lock your doors, and contact the police department if you see or hear anything unusual. We do not have a description of the shooter at this time. We suggest that you make sure everyone you know is safe in their home and aware of what has happened. Local, county, and state law enforcement agencies are working together to find the shooter and we appreciate your collaboration.”
The words had felt empty on his lips, but the DJ had given him the thumbs-up after the first recording.
The line of cruisers had already left Sherman Falls by the time the chief’s message had been broadcast, sandwiched between Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “The Power of Love” and Tears for Fears’ “Everybody Wants to Rule the World.”
None of the troopers in the state vehicles or the deputies in the sheriff’s cruisers were saying it, but they all thought the same thing: there was one main thoroughfare out of Ludlow and into the world—Highway 395—however, if the shooter had decided to go hiking instead of conveniently coming to meet them, well, there was nothing bu
t forest behind and around Ludlow all the way to Canada. And if a person wanted to enjoy quiet solitude and his own company, chances were he would not be found.
Madison stuck close to Sorensen: they had a crime scene that had not been charred to all hell, and they needed to work it before they lost the light. There were casings to pick up and trace evidence to look for on the ground where the shooter had lain. There was a small chance that the shells recovered near the victim’s body might tell Ballistics something about the weapon used. IBIS, the Integrated Ballistic Identification System, might help them to connect the rifle—Madison had no doubt that that kind of precision shooting had come from a rifle and not a handgun—to a previous crime, but her instincts told her that they would draw a blank on IBIS. The best they could do was put it in the system and hopefully find it in the suspect’s right hand when they went to question him—whoever he might be.
Madison picked up another casing and studied it as she slid it into a clear plastic evidence bag. It looked like a .300 WSM. It was the kind of cartridge everybody would be using for hunting deer or moose or any of the lovely creatures wandering through the woods. Madison was not a hunter—she understood hunting in terms of eating and survival, but not for pleasure. Her day job had somewhat inoculated her against killing anything for fun.
Madison’s hearing was back to normal, but she felt jittery. Evidence recovery and collection was an art and a craft, and Madison felt too frazzled for the rigors of Sorensen’s discipline.
“Don’t anybody touch the dog,” Sorensen had decreed, and nobody had—aside from bringing it food and water.
“This little mutt here is the only living creature who knows exactly who the shooter is, and he is going to tell us—one way or the other.”
Sorensen brushed the poodle’s coat and ran a hand vac over the curly brown fur. She detached the collar and the leash, and even looked under the dog’s paws and between the pads. Throughout the examination the animal stood stiff and slightly cowed, and when it was over it lay on the ground, exhausted.
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