Ricky took it, made sure the safety was on, and put it in his pocket. Without another word, he stepped into the frigid night and headed for the other side of Spruce Lake.
TWENTY-SIX
Lucy sat in the co-pilot seat of Sean’s private Cessna while he performed a fuel and systems check. They’d left Spruce Lake at dawn, but now the sun was warming the air and the sky was clear and blue. A perfect day for flying. She sipped her coffee and watched Sean. He looked tired, and she knew he was still in pain from the stitches.
“Are you sure these extreme measures are necessary?” Lucy asked.
Because of the latest threatening note, Sean had altered their plans. Last night, he had asked Noah to fly with Patrick to Ogdenburg, and then fly Lucy to Albany in Sean’s plane.
“Yes, I am,” he said.
“It’s not easy to sabotage a plane, especially with the security—”
“But it’s not impossible,” Sean said. “I can take you to nearly any airport in the country and in ten minutes show you how I could breach security.”
“That’s your job, Sean—you get paid to breach security.”
He gave her a half-smile. “I am good, aren’t I? But I’m not so arrogant as to think I’m the only person in the country who knows how to exploit security weaknesses. There are at least three or four of us.”
At least his sense humor was back. Last night had taken a lot out of Sean. He was worried about the teenager Ricky Swain, and alternately angry with and worried about Henry and Emily Callahan.
He took her hand. “Seriously, Lucy, they know you’re flying out today. I don’t know how, but they do. I have to mix things up. They could be waiting at this airport, in Albany, or be on the same plane. We don’t know all the players, nor do we know what the stakes are. But if they were willing to kill a federal agent to protect their secrets, they will kill you.”
“And you,” she reminded him. “I’m worried about you. Like you said, they’ll kill to keep their secrets.”
He kissed her lightly. Unlike the peck last night, this kiss, though light, was filled with restrained emotion. His hands squeezed hers and he looked her in the eyes, holding her gaze with his. “I’m sorry about yesterday.”
A weight lifted off her heart. Even though she still didn’t understand everything that had happened yesterday between them when he clammed up and told her it was best she get out of town, she now understood it wasn’t because he thought she was incapable.
She kissed him again. “Me, too. We’re going to work this out.” Lucy vowed to try to understand Sean’s experience with authority, and not take his animosity personally.
“This is just hard for me.”
“Me being a Fed?”
He shook his head. “Calling Noah for help,” he said, his gaze focused on the horizon.
Now Lucy was even more confused. “Because he’s FBI?”
“No.” He looked perplexed. “For a Fed, he’s not the worst out there.”
“From you, that’s a compliment.”
“Don’t you see it?”
“See what?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Don’t do that to me, Sean. You always tell me to spit it out. Or you just tell me what I’m thinking. Well, I’m not as good at reading your mind as apparently you are at reading mine, so I don’t understand.”
He tilted his head in disbelief. Well, if he wasn’t clear, how could she understand what he meant? She wasn’t psychic!
“Patrick would much rather have you dating someone like Noah than someone like me.”
She laughed; she just couldn’t help herself. That was the last thing she’d expected Sean to say. Date Noah?
He wasn’t laughing with her, and though she was still smiling, she suddenly realized there was more to this than Sean was letting on.
“First, I doubt you’re right about Patrick,” she said. “My brother would probably prefer I date no one. But that doesn’t matter, because what Patrick might or might not want is irrelevant.”
“No, it’s not.”
“You think I make my decisions based on what other people tell me I should do? I’m perfectly capable of making my own choices in life.”
“Patrick is different. Maybe you don’t see it—”
“There’s nothing to see!”
What was Sean keeping bottled up inside? She didn’t understand, and she hated feeling that she was missing something. It made her apprehensive. “Let’s not be mad at each other before I go to Albany.”
He reached behind her neck and pulled her across the small space separating the pilot and co-pilot’s seats. His heat-filled embrace sent her pulse racing. His hand went to her waist, under her sweater, pushing at the small of her back, holding her as close as he possibly could without bringing her into his lap. His mouth became aggressive, as if wanting to imprint the kiss on her, to kiss her so thoroughly that she wouldn’t be able to forget. Lucy held him tight, shivers of desire running through her, a need to keep Sean close.
He turned her head and kissed her jawline, all the way to her ear. A faint moan escaped her chest and he put his hands on her face, his forehead pressed against hers. “I’m not mad at you, Lucy. I was never mad. I love you.”
“I—” Her chest tightened. Tell him! Tell him you love him. “I’m not mad, either.” Her voice cracked.
His phone rang. Before he answered, she saw disappointment in his eyes.
He let her go. “It’s Patrick.”
Sean walked Noah through the mechanics of his Cessna, shared some of its quirks, and closed with, “Any questions?”
“I was an Air Force pilot for ten years; I think I can fly a little Cessna.”
“She’s not a fighter plane,” Sean said.
“I’ll take good care of her.”
Sean didn’t miss that Noah glanced at Lucy, who’d watched the flight “lesson” with a bemused expression on her face.
“When are you returning?”
“Tonight,” Noah said. “Considering what’s been happening, you need all the help you can get.” He handed Sean a file folder. “Here’s everything you need to get in to see Paul Swain.”
Though Swain was in a state penitentiary, Noah had contacted the FBI liaison and smoothed the way for Sean.
“I appreciate it,” he said. It wasn’t the first time Noah had pulled strings for him, and he didn’t particularly like feeling indebted to him.
Sean took Lucy’s hand. “Be careful, Luce.” He pulled her into a hug. She stiffened, just a bit, but he didn’t let her go. She’d never been comfortable with public displays of affection, and usually he respected her feelings, but this time he wasn’t pulling back. He kissed her long enough to make sure Noah Armstrong understood that Lucy was off-limits.
When he stepped back, she touched his cheek softly and said, “You be careful, Sean Rogan. I’ll be surrounded by FBI agents in a military-controlled building. You’re marching back to the lion’s den.”
“I’ll watch his back,” Patrick called from where he stood leaning against the hood of the rental truck.
“Take care of each other,” Lucy said. “I expect you both to be in one piece when we get back tonight.”
Sean watched as Noah and Lucy climbed into his plane and Noah started the preflight check. He gave Sean a thumbs-up when he got clearance from air traffic control, and drove the plane toward the small-craft runway.
Sean leaned against the truck next to Patrick, watching until the Cessna disappeared in the sky. Patrick said, “You’re jealous.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
Patrick laughed. Sean didn’t. He strode to the driver’s door and pulled it open, slamming it behind him. Patrick followed. “I’ll admit, I like it.”
“I thought you were my friend.” Sean turned the ignition and drove too quickly from the field.
“I am. But in the three years I’ve known you, and all the women you dated before Lucy, not once did I see y
ou jealous.”
“I’m not jealous of Noah Armstrong.”
But dammit, Patrick was right. He was jealous.
“It’s a good thing.”
“You’re sick. Besides, I thought you wanted Lucy to dump me for someone like that Fed.”
“I did.”
“Asshole.”
Patrick laughed. “You don’t listen. When you called me last night and asked me to bring Noah here this morning to fly your plane to Albany with Lucy, I realized that maybe you have changed. It’s been obvious for months that you don’t like Noah, and I think it has less to do with the fact that he’s a Fed and more to do with the fact that he’s Lucy’s friend. To call him for help shows a rare humility, but more important, tells me that you would do anything to protect my sister, even ask for help from the man you’re afraid is your rival.”
“Well,” Sean said. “I don’t think I’ve heard you talk so much bullshit at one time. Rival? Hardly. That would mean Lucy is undecided, and she’s not.”
“I know. She loves you.”
Just because Patrick said it so matter-of-factly didn’t make Sean feel better. Because she’d never told him, and in fact he did consider Noah a rival. Because whether Patrick, or Lucy, or even Noah knew it, Noah was attracted to her. That Lucy liked and respected Noah contributed to it. And that was bad for all of them, no matter how Sean looked at it.
But if there was any silver lining to this epiphany of Patrick’s, it was that he had finally dropped his opposition to Sean dating his sister.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Sean and Patrick entered the sheriff’s office just after nine a.m. Saturday morning. Sean was supposed to be at the prison for his visit with Paul Swain at one that afternoon. He hadn’t wanted to wait, but the cogs of the prison bureaucracy ran on their own time. Especially since Noah had moved heaven and earth to get Sean, who wasn’t a cop, a private Saturday visit with Swain.
Detective Sergeant Kyle Dillard came out of his office to greet them. After introductions, he escorted them to his office and said, “I left a message for Deputy Weddle to come by, but I haven’t heard from him.”
“Probably skipped town,” Sean mumbled.
He and Patrick sat in the chairs across from Dillard’s tidy desk. On the wall behind the detective were several commendations from both the St. Lawrence County Sheriff and the Philadelphia Police Department. “You’re from Philly?” Sean asked.
“Born and bred. Came here to get away from big city crime. Found out that small town violence can be just as bad.” Dillard poured coffee into a mug from a thermos on his desk. “Did you get the copy of Weddle’s report I emailed last night?”
“He’s either a liar or an idiot,” Sean said. “And I noticed he didn’t report the sniper who shot at us yesterday.”
“Sniper?”
Sean nodded and leaned forward.
“There was a body in the mine. Lucy didn’t make it up; she wasn’t scared and seeing things. She’s identified the body as Special Agent Victoria Sheffield out of the Albany FBI office.”
Dillard leaned back in his chair, but his expression was both grim and suspicious. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“I wanted to talk to you face-to-face. After dealing with Weddle for two days, I don’t trust him. And from what I’ve heard from people in Spruce Lake, he’s been on the take for years.”
“You’ll have to put some names to those accusations,” Dillard said.
Sean shook his head. “Not yet.” He assessed Dillard as a straightshooter. “Are you familiar with the Swain family?”
Dillard nodded. “I was part of the joint task force that took down Paul Swain. Nine people went to prison. If I thought Swain was still running things in Spruce Lake, I would have called in the Feds. One thing I can say about that place—they take care of their own. Someone like me—I wouldn’t get anywhere.”
“You don’t think Swain is managing his trade from the prison?” Patrick asked. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I’d never say never, but he’s closely watched. Two cops died during the operation—a meth lab exploded. Long story, screwups all around, but in the end we learned one of Swain’s people set it up. A booby trap.”
“How did you get the warrant in the first place?” Patrick asked.
“Someone turned state’s evidence.”
“Who?” Sean wondered if his theory about Bobbie Swain turning in her brother had merit.
“That information is above my pay grade. It’s not in any of the official reports.”
“An insider,” Sean said.
Dillard shrugged. “That would be my educated guess. Someone very close to Swain.”
“What if,” Sean said, “this C.I. who helped the task force take down Swain and his cronies turned around and set up his—or her—own criminal enterprise?”
“Anything’s possible,” Dillard said. “Or, someone saw the opportunity to fill a hole in the distribution chain. I’ll tap my contact with the DEA and see what he knows.”
“Discreetly,” Sean said.
Dillard frowned, and Patrick interjected, “My partner is concerned that there may be problems with some of the law enforcement. Especially after what’s happened with Deputy Weddle.”
“Weddle is a bad cop,” Sean said bluntly.
“Not all cops are like Weddle.” Dillard rubbed the back of his neck. “I pulled the GPS on Weddle’s assigned vehicle. Though he officially clocked out at four p.m. on Wednesday, the day you found the body, his vehicle was at the Kelley Mine from eight-fifteen until nine-forty-nine p.m.” He handed Sean a short stack of papers. “I shouldn’t be sharing this with you, but you might see something I’m missing. It goes back seventy-two hours. Weddle has been spending a lot of time at the mine this week.”
Sean scanned the GPS printout. It showed Weddle’s exact route by time and location. He’d spent a lot of time in Spruce Lake. He lived nearly thirty minutes away in Potsdam, where his car was now.
Dillard added, “This week has shown a definite change in pattern.”
Not only was Weddle at the mine Wednesday night—to remove Agent Sheffield’s body?—but he’d gone back Friday late in the afternoon. That was after Lucy had told him there was evidence in the mine.
Sean looked carefully at the stops Weddle made after Thursday morning, when he first met Sean and Lucy at the mine. He first went to the Lock & Barrel, then back to Potsdam. On Friday he was at the Hendricksons’ before noon—after Tim called about the sniper—then went to Reverend Browne’s church for more than an hour. At 3:30, the deputy was in Colton for nearly thirty minutes, then went back to the mine for over an hour before returning to his residence.
“Who lives at 1020 West Mountain Road?”
Dillard typed the address into his computer. “The house is owned by Butch and Katherine Swain.”
“He was there for nearly thirty minutes, then went back to the mine. That was after Lucy told him there was evidence down there. Which is probably gone now.”
Dillard looked as though he wanted to argue. After all, Sean was making a grave accusation about one of his cops, but he closed his mouth.
Patrick said, “When did Weddle arrive home on Friday?”
“Six-ten.”
“Where is he right now?” Patrick asked Dillard.
Dillard typed into his computer. “At his residence in Potsdam. At least his police unit is there. He has the day off. He could be using his personal vehicle.”
“Are you planning on paying him a visit?”
“I suppose I am.”
“How about a partner?” Sean said. Dillard hesitated. “Patrick here was a cop in San Diego for ten years. Does that help?”
Dillard gave him a half-smile. “A bit. You’re both welcome to join me. Let me take the lead.”
“We’ll follow you,” Sean said as they left the station.
There was no response to Dillard’s repeated knockings at the small, post–World War II house of Tyler Weddle.
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Sean had a bad feeling. Weddle’s personal car was in the garage and his police unit in the driveway.
“I’m calling it in,” Dillard said. He informed dispatch that he was entering the locked house of Deputy Tyler Weddle on a well-being check. He went to his truck to retrieve a small, one-man metal battering ram.
“If you don’t mind,” Sean said and pulled out his lock pick set. He liked the ease and finesse of picking a lock, and didn’t understand why most cops went for the big guns, so to speak. In less than five seconds, he had the door unlocked.
“You two, go around back,” Dillard said, notably impressed. “At a count of ten I’ll announce myself and then enter. Do not enter until I give you the clear, though if he bolts—”
“Got it.” He and Patrick jogged around to the back, keeping low beneath the line of the windows. “If he bolts, you’ll have to chase him down.” Sean was usually faster than Patrick in a sprint, but with his bum leg he didn’t think he’d be any help.
At exactly ten seconds, they heard Dillard shout, “Weddle! It’s Detective Sergeant Kyle Dillard! I’m coming in!”
Sean positioned himself just outside the door to watch the knob. Patrick was five feet behind him, against the house, gun drawn, ready to give chase if necessary.
“Boys!” Dillard called. “It’s me.”
Sean lowered his gun. As soon as Dillard opened the door, Sean smelled it. Vomit, alcohol, blood. Dillard’s face was grim.
The back door opened into a small mudroom, then the kitchen. Dried vomit coated the sickly yellow counter and dripping sink. A bottle of JD had spilled on the table, soaking into a stack of junk mail and bills.
“I didn’t do a complete search yet,” Dillard said, “but I don’t think anyone’s alive in here.”
The living room was clear. There were two bedrooms and one bathroom. The bedrooms were clear.
The carpet in the narrow hall outside the bathroom was soaked in water. A light trickle of water sounded from behind the closed door.
Dillard motioned for Sean and Patrick to stand back, then opened the door.
Sean wasn’t sure what he thought he’d see, but he wasn’t expecting a bloodbath.
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