“Fine,” I snap. “Then you take all of us.”
He can’t find a good reason to refuse, so we crowd into the backseat of the cruiser. There’s steel mesh between us and the policeman’s front seat, and—I know from experience—back doors that won’t open from the inside. We’re in a cage now. Right where they want us.
But there’s nothing else to be done, except start making moves of my own.
As we’re driven back to Wolfhunter, as night starts to close in on this depressing, devastating town, I start texting my contacts.
Every one of them.
I sit in the interview room while Connor gives his statement, and I am speechless to hear the scope of it . . . the discovery of the body. The ambush on the way back to the lodge. Sam’s actions. Connor doesn’t lie, as far as I can tell; he’s straightforward and open, even when he tells the detective—a local one I don’t know—that he didn’t see the actual shooting that Sam’s been accused of; he only looked around the tree when he heard the shot.
That doesn’t help Sam much, but I’m glad he doesn’t make up a story. It would be too easy for them to trip up a kid his age.
Brave as he’s been, Connor still drops his chin when the detective leaves the room, though, and I realize he’s crying. Finally, I think. I grab tissues and pass them over, and just let him work it out. I’m glad my son can cry.
When he’s finished, I say, “Don’t feel guilty, baby. Sam doesn’t want you to lie. You told the truth. That’s what matters.”
“I know,” he says. “But, Mom, they—the way they treated him . . .”
He still remembers how I was treated when I was arrested. It was probably gentler than how these local cops handled things, but it was traumatic enough to leave lasting marks on my children. “He’s going to be okay,” I tell him. “I asked Hector Sparks to show up at the hospital and protect him in case the cops want to get a statement too soon. Mike Lustig is on his way to Wolfhunter as soon as he gets free. Kezia and Javier know what’s going on. Things will be fine. I promise.”
“Don’t promise,” he says, and gives me a sad little smile. “Sam doesn’t.” I wonder what that’s about, but I don’t let it take root. I can’t right now.
“I’m sorry you had to go through all this,” I tell him. “I know it feels bad. I know it reminds you of things that are hard to deal with.”
“It’s okay,” he says, though it’s obviously not. “I’m glad we found her. It wasn’t right for her to be just . . . left there. Like nobody cared at all.”
“She’s found now,” I tell him gently. “You and Sam did that for her.”
“She’s probably one of them. Those missing women.”
“She could be,” I say. “But we don’t know that.”
He just shakes his head. “I think she is.”
I don’t try to talk him out of it. I ask if he wants something to drink, and when he nods, I knock on the closed door and ask for a bottle of water. The bottle comes back in the hand of the same detective from before. He brings a printed-out statement with him, and he puts the bottle, the statement, and a pen in front of my son.
Connor automatically picks up the pen. I grab the paper. “What’s this?”
“We transcribed his statement, ma’am. It just needs his signature,” the detective says. I start reading. I don’t get two sentences in before I take the pen from Connor’s fingers and start marking up the paper. This transcription is more like a free paraphrasing. I shove it back at the detective. He’s not happy. “Ma’am, we took this directly from the recording . . .”
“I’ll bet,” I say, and take my phone out. “Here. Let’s play that game, shall we? Because I had my recorder running too.”
He clears his throat, stares at me for a few seconds, and then stands up and leaves the room without a word. Connor gives me a look. “Wow. Seriously? You recorded that?”
I don’t confirm or deny, just in case. I only smile.
When the statement comes back this time, it compares to what I remember from Connor’s account. I ask him to read it and correct anything that’s wrong. He does on one sentence, and then signs it. Before he passes it back, I take a quick picture of it.
That gets an even less happy response from the detective. I’m fairly sure they were going to try something else shady, but now that I have the picture, they can’t. Especially if I have the recording. Which I don’t, but they can’t be sure.
We exchange stares. He leaves.
Connor cracks open the bottle and drinks thirstily, like he’s been without for a day. I want to tell him to slow down, but I don’t. When the bottle’s drained, I take it. I don’t throw it away. The last thing I want is for them to fake some DNA thing to implicate my son down the line, and from what I’ve seen so far, I’m convinced that the police chief is probably behind this ugly push. It’s not really about my son.
It’s about showing me who’s boss.
I realize that I’m indulging my natural paranoia again—they could get touch DNA from the pen he used, or the paper he’s just signed—but I have to try to keep him safe. The fact that even now we’re locked inside this room makes me feral.
My cell phone rings. I check the number. It’s from Hector Sparks. “Ms. Proctor? Yes, I wanted to let you know that I’m here at the hospital. Mr. Cade is awake. They’ve just taken him for an X-ray of his skull, but he says he feels all right. He has five stitches in his scalp. Knowing Chief Weldon, I’m sure he has some story about Mr. Cade violently resisting arrest. There’s really no point in trying to challenge that, not in this town when the only witnesses are fellow police.”
I breathe a little easier, not that it doesn’t make me angry all over again . . . and then I freeze. “Wait. The chief of police is named Weldon?”
“Yes,” Sparks says. “Why?”
Weldon was one of the voices back at the garage, along with the owner, Carr. I don’t like where this is going. Not at all. “You’ll stay until I can get there?”
“I can stay for another”—I can almost hear the watch check—“two hours. However, according to Officer Helmer, as soon as the hospital clears him, he’ll be taken straight to the police department. I assume you’re there already?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. Then as soon as he’s released, I’ll be on my way. I wouldn’t want Mrs. Pall to have to wait dinner.”
Heaven forbid, I want to snap, but I somehow manage not to. Sparks’s legal help is probably superfluous right now, but I can’t afford to alienate the only lawyer I know.
I knock on the door again. The same cop opens it. “My son’s just turned twelve. He’s had a traumatic day. He’s given his statement. Either give him some food, or let us go.”
“Wait inside,” he orders me, and shuts the door in my face. I do, pacing; I’m like a lion in the cage, while Connor is calm and quiet. I want to force their hand before Sam gets here.
I get my wish, because the cop opens the door in five minutes, and says, “You can go. But orders of the chief: don’t leave town.”
That’s bullshit and I know it. Connor’s not a suspect; he’s a witness, and they can’t pull that on a minor child. I don’t push my luck, though. I get Connor out the door, into the hall, and out into the reception area. Lanny’s slumped in a seat, headphones on, but she jumps to her feet the second she sees us. She runs to Connor and wraps him in a bear hug. “Don’t scare me like that,” she whispers to him. And he hugs her back. I feel a burn in the back of my throat that might be tears, if I let myself go there. They’d be good tears for a change.
Lanny rushes to give me a hug too. “Are we leaving? Can we go see Sam? Is he at the hospital?”
“We should wait here,” I tell her. “Sam’s going to be brought in as soon as they’re done with him. I’m hoping that they’ll be in a hot rush to charge him.”
“You hope what? Why?” Connor looks mystified. I give him a smile.
“Because the sooner they charge him, the faster his bail can go t
hrough,” I say. “And the sooner we can get the hell out of this town.”
“But . . . what if he doesn’t get bail?” Lanny asks anxiously. “What if—”
“One crisis at a time,” I tell her.
Sam is brought in—and we’re not allowed to get near him, but he’s walking, and our eyes meet and lock for a priceless few seconds, and he mouths It’s okay at the same time I say, “I’ll be here”—and then he’s taken straight back to the cells, for questioning. We wait until I overhear at 10:00 p.m. that they’ve arrested Sam for manslaughter.
The arraignment comes at midnight. Lanny’s proven correct. There is no bail. And no chance to talk to him. I shouldn’t be shocked, but I am, and horrified; I don’t want Sam in jail tonight, in this town. I should have realized they’d get the judge onside for this and planned accordingly. But I’m tired. And scared. And I’m feeling very, very exposed.
The saving grace is that Mike Lustig arrives at the courthouse just as Sam’s taken away. Mike’s a good man. And a black man with an FBI badge, which will be—I’m pretty sure—Chief Weldon’s worst nightmare. We spend ten minutes huddling, and I give him every piece of solid information I have, including the conversation I overheard in which Chief Weldon played a role. I tell him my speculation, too, that Marlene Crockett knew about a wreck that was quickly made to vanish by the police, Mr. Carr, the garage owner, and some third party named Carl that I can’t identify yet. There’s payoffs in the making, big enough to kill for.
“I wonder if it’s . . .” He starts that thought, but he doesn’t finish it. “Never mind that right now. Let’s just get through the night. Listen, I want you to get those kids out of this town. Take them home.”
“But, Sam—”
“Leave Sam to me. I’ll make myself real useful around here for the night. He won’t be alone, promise you that.” He pauses for a second. “Don’t stay around here tonight. I know you’re tempted, and I understand that. But I need you and them out of danger.”
He’s right. The motel wasn’t safe; the lodge wasn’t either. We need to get back home, where we have friends and allies who can watch our backs.
Hard as it is to go and leave Sam behind.
“Can I write a note?” I ask Mike, at the end. “Will you give it to him?”
“Voice mail’s faster,” he says, and hands me his phone. “Use the recorder. I’ll make sure he hears it. That way they can’t accuse me of trying to pass him a shiv or some bullshit like that.”
Mike’s read on this place is just as dire as mine, I realize; that’s ominous. “If you need help, call this guy,” I tell him, and send him Fairweather’s number from my phone. I feel his phone vibrate as it arrives. “He’s with the TBI. I don’t think he likes the way things smell around here either. He got reassigned yesterday. I wonder how that happened.”
“It’s a damn mystery,” Mike says, and gives me a grim smile. “Go on and whisper sweet nothings to your man. I won’t listen.”
“Liar,” I say, but I don’t mean it. He walks a couple of feet away, and I press the “Record” button. Then I’m temporarily voiceless. What can I say? What makes up for the fact that I’m about to drive away and leave him here, in Wolfhunter, when he came up here determined to watch my back?
“Sam,” I say, and my voice sounds strange and emotional, and that’s not what I want. I take a breath. “Sorry. I need to get the kids out of here, into a safer place. So I’m going to go home until tomorrow, but I’ll be back as fast as I can. I’m hoping that Javier or Kez can step in for them temporarily until we can both get the hell out of this town and decide what we do next. Mike’s here for you, meanwhile. And I’m coming back for you. I promise.” I hesitate, close my eyes, and say it. “I love you, Sam Cade. I’m sorry that . . . I’m sorry. I love you. Don’t forget.”
I end the recording and take the phone back to Mike, who gives me a long, considering look. “You going to break my friend’s heart?” he asks.
“Depends,” I say. “Is he going to break mine?”
He doesn’t answer that. “You get those kids safe. Sam’ll never forgive me if they get hurt on my watch.”
I watch him walk away, and then we go to the waiting police vehicle that gives us a ride back to the lodge where we left the SUV. I don’t like going back in for our stuff, but Lanny’s adamant that she’s not leaving her laptop. I make damn sure the clerk knows I’m armed and ready for trouble, and we gather everything in less than ten minutes. Then we’re on the road, heading home.
We’re going to sleep in our own beds, and whatever tomorrow brings, at least we’ll have that much comfort.
I’m just turning onto the main road when my cell rings. The kids grumble and fall back asleep almost instantly once I answer it. “Yes?” My tone is guarded. It’s late, I’m exhausted, and I’m in the woods on a dark, twisting road. It’s black as a hole out here, except for the wash of my headlights across the asphalt, the jump of the yellow center line, the green from the trees flashing past.
“Ms. Proctor?”
I recognize that careful Virginia voice. “Detective Fairweather. Pretty late to be calling.” It’s almost 1:00 a.m., I know because I’ve checked, and I can count the time by the ache in my bones at this point.
“It is,” he says. He sounds as tired as I feel. “I just got back from a fingertip search of a field about fifty miles from Wolfhunter. We had a tip Ellie White might be there. All I got to show for it are dirty hands and a sore back.”
“But you’re calling me . . . ?”
“Because I heard about Mr. Cade’s situation,” he says. He sounds grim. “Did you bail him out?”
“I couldn’t. No bail.”
“County lockup?”
“No,” I say. “He’s in Wolfhunter.”
“Well, hell.” It’s mildly shocking to hear even that much of a curse from him. “I can cook something up in the morning, but I’m worried he’s going to have some trouble tonight in that jail.”
“Are you telling me they’re that bad? Wolfhunter PD?”
“Accidents happen,” he says flatly. It’s not exactly agreement; most cops won’t cross that blue line, and I’m not surprised. “I might be able to work something in the morning, but—”
“But you’re worried he might, what, hang himself from a bedsheet in the middle of the night?”
“Something like that. Are the kids all right? I heard one of them was with him during the shooting.”
“Connor,” I say, and glance over at the rearview mirror. My son is leaning against the side window, fast asleep. “He’s okay. We’re heading out for the night, back to Stillhouse Lake.”
I can hear an infinity of weariness in his voice as he says, “Then I guess I’d best head back to Wolfhunter and find some excuse to visit the prisoner for a while. Let them know the TBI has an eye on this.”
I’m deeply grateful . . . and then I’m wary too. I don’t know Fairweather that well, and though he seems trustworthy enough, maybe he isn’t. Or maybe Wolfhunter has gotten under my skin and is poisoning my view of everyone I’ve met since coming into its dark borders. “No need. Sam’s friend is FBI, and he’s there helping out.”
“Friends in high places?”
I don’t acknowledge that. “Sam will make it through the night. And I’ll be back in the morning as soon as I can. We will get him out of there. He shot a man who was trying to kill him and Connor. Self-defense, pure and simple.”
“It’s never so simple when the victim’s law enforcement. I hear he’s charged with manslaughter. You might have tough sledding making a self-defense case. You going to hire Hector Sparks?”
“Do I have much of a choice?”
We flash past a mile marker that tells me we’re now five miles outside of Wolfhunter. I start to relax a little. Got a tense drive to make, and a short sleep coming, but just being out of that town’s shadow makes me feel better. “Thank you for reaching out, Detective. It means a lot to know you’re paying attention to what’s
going on in this town.”
“Oh, trust me, I am,” he says. “Okay, Ms. Proctor, you drive safe, and I’ll talk to you—”
A rifle shot explodes through our back window and out the front. I register the icy fracture of the glass an instant before I hear the hot crack of the shot.
The first impulse that shoots through me is red, urgent, and it makes me pull the wheel to the side. The car lurches sickeningly, and even as I consciously form a plan, I’m pressing the gas to the floor and straightening out to avoid running off the road. I hear Lanny screaming something, and that’s when I focus on the round hole that’s been punched in our front window, and the thick spiderweb of cracks still expanding out from it. The back window is worse. I gasp and check my side mirror.
We’re being chased.
There’s a truck behind us, and a guy standing in the bed of it leaning forward and bracing himself. He’s got a hunting rifle of some kind, and he’s taking aim. We’re going fast, but our pursuers are gaining.
“Connor!” I shout. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” he says.
“Lanny!”
“Mom, they’re shooting at us!”
“Both of you, get down and hold on!”
It takes a precious couple of seconds for them to be concealed, protected, and I compensate by swerving over the line and back to spoil the bastard’s aim. Once I’m sure my kids are okay, I take another deep breath, send off a microsecond of prayer, and hit the brakes as hard as I can.
My SUV screeches, fights, tries to slide. I leave a long trail of thick rubber on the road.
The pickup behind me is forced to brake hard, because they’d been accelerating to get closer, and the rifleman gets thrown against the cab so violently that he loses his rifle. It clatters to the road and bounces off into a ditch. Before they’re fully stopped, I’m flooring the SUV again and reaching for my phone. I intend to dial 911, but I realize that I’ve forgotten all about Detective Fairweather. He’s shouting in my ear. “Gwen! Gwen what the hell is—”
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