Cold Aim

by Janice Cantore

  And he would collect his money. Every time he looked in the mirror at the ugly, red-purple mark across his cheek, his anger rekindled. Thankfully, Digger had brought a bag of Ice’s things; included inside was some makeup. He applied it liberally to his cheek until the mark disappeared. He’d make those women pay.

  He heard a knock at the door of the suite and judged from the conversation that Digger had ordered breakfast. Ice threw on a robe and went out to see what was on the menu.

  The coffee smelled great, and Royal saw an assortment of pastries. He also smelled bacon, saw pancakes and eggs. He was starved.

  “Help yourself,” Digger said when the bellman left. “We need to talk.”

  Royal filled a coffee cup and a plate, ignoring Digger’s tone, but not liking it. There was a time when a side glance from Digger would have left Royal quaking in his boots. But that was a long time ago. They were both older, Digger at least thirty years older than Royal. And he looked every bit of his age. He didn’t scare Royal at all anymore.

  “What do you want to talk about?” Royal asked, his mouth full of bacon.

  “This.” He tossed a newspaper in front of Royal. The Medford Mail Tribune.

  Royal swallowed his food with a swig of coffee. The headlines screamed at him.

  Local Woman Survives Being Shot, Shoved over Midas Creek Falls.

  There was a photo of the chatty cashier. He scanned the rest of the page, having to fight to keep his face blank when he saw a story about the shooting at Faith’s Place, the women’s shelter. There was a drawing of a man wanted for questioning, authorities said—code for “suspect”—and his nickname, “Ice.”

  Royal looked up to see Digger watching him. “What?”

  “You screwed up all the way around, didn’t you?”

  Royal sat back in his chair and pushed away from the table. He swallowed again. “Gage screwed up. I’m a victim of his incompetence.”

  “This girl?” He pointed to the headline. “She’s yours too, isn’t she? You can’t blame that on Gage.”

  “She doesn’t know who I am. Even if she survives, she doesn’t know anything. Cyrus—”

  “I just spoke to Cyrus. He’s not at all happy with you. Yeah, you’re hot. You’re kryptonite.”

  Ice sneered. “Me, kryptonite? From the guy who skipped bail? Cyrus is out of his mind.”

  Ice read the older man’s body language and was ready to move a split second before the gun, suppressor attached, came out of Digger’s robe pocket. Ice jerked to the right and the bullet missed, but the cup of hot coffee Ice tossed in Digger’s face didn’t.

  Digger cried out in pain and stumbled back. Ice was up and on him, wrenching the gun easily from the older man’s hand. Ice put his hand on Digger’s chest and shoved with all his might, and the man went down onto the floor.

  Ice stood over him. “Was that Cyrus’s idea or yours?” he asked, pointing the gun at center mass.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Where is Cyrus?”

  “You won’t find out from me.”

  Royal could barely see straight, he was so angry, holding the gun on Digger, glaring at the man who taught him everything he knew. The pain that blossomed from the rapid movements he’d made caused his eyes to water.

  Digger stared back. “Cyrus made you, and now you betray him.”

  “I can bury Cyrus. And I just might.” He fired once into Digger.

  After a minute, the pain in his body subsided, and Royal went back to his breakfast. He didn’t think the pop from the suppressor would bring any unwanted attention. Digger liked small-caliber weapons. Now he contemplated this new development and wondered just what exactly his next move should be.

  By the time he finished his breakfast, he had a plan. He showered, dressed, searched Digger’s things, and took everything he thought he could use.

  On his way out the door, he looked down on Digger. “You’re right, old man. Cyrus made me.”

  He left the hotel room, remembering to put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door.

  44

  Tess had just ordered her late breakfast at the Hollow Grind when her phone rang. It was the deputy working Shady Cove. He’d found Ken Blakely’s pickup truck. But where he found it gave Tess pause. It was at the Maple Leaf Hotel.

  She took her breakfast to go and headed down to the parking lot of the Maple Leaf. She remembered that was where she was when she got the call about the shooting at Faith’s Place. She’d planned to check on Jim Smith, a member of the work crew. He’d listed his residence as room 10.

  What a coincidence that the stolen truck belonging to murdered Ken Blakely would be found at the same hotel where a potential suspect in Tami’s shooting had been staying.

  “I haven’t gone through the truck yet,” the deputy told her when she arrived. “Thought you might want to take a look first.”

  “Thanks.”

  The hotel manager was also in the parking lot. “This truck was never registered here,” he said. “All my guests register their vehicles.”

  “Did you see who parked it here?”

  He shook his head.

  “What about the occupant of room 10? Has he checked out yet?”

  “No, but he paid through the month, in cash. He doesn’t have a car; he has a motorcycle.” He handed Tess a registration card with all the information Smith had given him.

  Tess noted that there was no motorcycle in the lot. She called the work crew supervisor and asked about Jim Smith.

  “He wasn’t home when we came by to pick him up this morning. I put him down as a no-show. Today was the last day anyway.” He gave Tess the phone number he had for Smith. Tess remembered the burner phone in the knapsack; it was unlikely that the number would get her much.

  Though Tess doubted she’d find any evidence, she went to her computer and applied for a warrant to search room 10. Once she was able to access the room, she found the place as clean as if housekeeping had recently been there. Frustrated, but glad that she had a name to go with her suspect, Tess had the truck impounded and room 10 sealed in order for a crime scene team to process the room more completely than she could.

  The elation she felt at recognizing that Jim Smith was her man was tempered by the knowledge that she’d been one step behind him for far too long. Was Jim Smith the gunman in both Tami’s shooting and the incident at Faith’s Place?

  Her phone rang, and she saw it was Steve.

  “Good news,” he said when she answered. “Tami came around. She was able to give the deputy on her room a statement. The guy you’re looking for is part of the temporary work crew. His name is Jim Smith.”

  “That is not a surprise.” She told him where she was and what she had found so far.

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Did Tami say anything else?”

  “Only that when she went out with Smith, he was very interested in the woman who made a scene at the market. That was Chevy, correct?”

  “Yep.” Tess felt the click of things sliding into place. Poor Tami. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Smith pumped her for information about Chevy and then tried to kill her.

  “It all fits, Steve. Now we just have to find Jim Smith.”

  “Working on that. You sent me the information from the work crew. His driver’s license picture is there. I’ll get a press release out right away.”

  “Thank you, Steve. I appreciate that.”

  “No problem. We’ll catch this guy. If anyone deserves to be caught, he does. According to Tami, he shot her cold, never said a word, never showed any emotion. His nickname is fitting.”

  Tess ended the call and got back in her SUV. Her thoughts drifted to Oliver. She hadn’t spoken to him that morning, which was unusual. Emotions conflicted, she didn’t want to argue, she didn’t want friction; she simply wanted to share her thoughts and plans with someone who would understand.

  45

  Ice left the hotel room cautiously, hoping to avoid contact with anyone. Mak
eup covered the mark on his cheek, he was clean-shaven, and he’d buzzed his hair very short. He needed to be a ghost now.

  He relaxed a bit when he stepped into an empty hallway. Taking as deep a breath as possible while still avoiding pain, he strode toward the elevators. As he got closer to the elevator bay, he could hear a male voice talking. Slowing, Ice paused before stepping from the hallway into the vestibule that held the elevators. Last night, he remembered that there was some problem with them; maybe this was a technician.

  Then he heard something that hit him like a brick and made him stand stock-still, straining to catch every bit of what the man was saying.

  “Agent Bass gave me instructions to convince the girl that we can protect her better at a different locale.”

  Then quiet; the man was listening. Ice held his breath and leaned forward slowly to peer into the vestibule. The man’s back was to him, phone to his ear.

  “Hmm.” He nodded.

  It was a Fed—the suit, the haircut, the shoes all gave him away—and Royal fought the urge to turn and flee down the stairs.

  “Right, I spoke to the sheriff before you called. He says the girl is staying with some prepper. . . . Uh, what? . . . Yeah, apparently the woman lives on some sort of self-contained compound.”

  He jammed the elevator button impatiently two or three times. “Well, I have to get out there before I can give you a full report on the situation, don’t I?”

  Ice tried to figure out how this could work to his advantage. He could follow the Fed right to Chevy before eliminating him. Ice didn’t mind ridding the world of another Fed.

  “There’s a liaison, a local pastor who can take me to the girl. Look, there’s a problem with the elevator here. I’m taking the stairs. I’ll call you back after I make contact with her.”

  He shoved the phone into his pocket, and Royal turned, reaching the door to the stairwell first. He pulled the door open for the Fed.

  Affecting a British accent, Ice said, “Shoddy elevators, yeah?”

  The agent brushed past him, clearly in a hurry. “You said it.”

  Ice stepped into the stairwell after him, and before the door closed behind him, he leaped forward and shoved, hitting the agent in the back as hard as he could.

  The agent’s startled cry was drowned out by the sound of him and his briefcase falling down the metal and concrete stairs.

  Ice waited for the echo to die out and then walked down after the agent while reaffixing the suppressor to Digger’s gun. But when he reached the spot where the agent had landed, he could see the gun was not necessary. The unnatural angle of the man’s neck told him that the fall had done Ice’s work for him.

  Heart beating rapidly, Ice put the gun away and looked up the stairwell and then down. No one else was in sight. He’d already noticed yesterday that there were no cameras anywhere. He knelt down beside the dead agent, went through his pockets, removed his ID, his phone, his wallet, car keys. The man was about Ice’s height and weight. Ice studied the ID photo and believed he could sell it—he could be Agent Ferguson.

  This was a stroke of luck.

  The briefcase had fallen a few more stairs below. Ice took out his own ID and put it in the agent’s pocket. Then he continued down and collected the briefcase. He opened it and put the agent’s things inside, then snapped it shut. Straightening his jacket and running a hand over his short hair, Ice picked up the case and started down the rest of the stairs. He didn’t hurry, but he walked with a purpose, working hard to not draw attention to himself as he exited the hotel and entered the parking lot.

  He found the agent’s car not far from Digger’s Cadillac Escalade. As much as he preferred the luxury car to the nondescript sedan belonging to the agent, he knew that taking the agent’s car was the wiser choice. He’d do what he needed to do and ditch the car anyway.

  46

  On his way back to Rogue’s Hollow from the hospital, Oliver got a call from Bronwyn.

  “Just wanted to let you know, I talked to Agent Bass, and now, as far as all law enforcement is concerned, you are the official liaison between Chevy and Livie and everyone else. You are the only one she trusts with her contact information.”

  Not sure what to make of that, Oliver thought for a moment. “Has the FBI agent arrived in town yet?”

  “No,” Bronwyn said. “The chief asked about that as well.”

  “I assume he’ll want to go check on Harp and Chevy.”

  “Most likely. Chief O’Rourke will call you when he gets here.”

  “You’re right. I’ll wait for her call.”

  He rang off and headed to the home of Janie and Garrett Cooper, to see how they were doing after the trauma of the night before. Garrett was quiet, subdued, and Oliver knew from Tess that there was a very good chance he’d be charged with a crime for what he did for Ken Blakely. Janie, considering what she’d just been through, was doing well, seemed calm sitting in the living room, holding her little girl and watching the two older boys play.

  Oliver took Garret aside to the kitchen. They sat together at the small table.

  “I’m sorry, Pastor Mac.”

  “Sorry for what, Garrett?”

  “Everything. The situation with Blakely, helping him poach, lying—everything.”

  “I think you should be telling Janie that.”

  “It’s hard to say that kind of stuff to her. I feel weak.”

  “It’s not weak to admit the truth to the one you love. And she needs to hear that from you. You want this marriage to work, don’t you?”

  Garrett faced Oliver, expression earnest. “More than anything, Pastor Mac. I didn’t realize how much I loved Janie until I thought of life without her.” He sniffled and ran a hand across his nose. “She’s a great mom. She’s my other half.” He held Oliver’s gaze as his eyes filled with tears. “Does it make me weak to admit that?”

  “No, not at all. It makes you human.” He put a hand on Garrett’s arm. “Do me a favor, Garrett. After you put the kids to bed tonight, tell Janie what you told me. The two of you need to talk honestly and for a long time. It’s not just about you; there are also three little lives who depend on an honest conversation. Will you do that?”

  A tear fell, and Garrett quickly wiped it away. “I will, Pastor Mac. I promise I will. I never want to lose her.”

  Before he said good-bye, Oliver prayed with the couple, for healing, for the family, and for the bad memories of the last few days to be erased.

  He left the mobile with a much lighter heart than he’d woken up with. He believed there was hope for Janie and Garrett. It was too bad that it took the kidnapping of Janie to make Garrett wake up.

  He couldn’t help but think about Tess. Oliver thought about how irritated and angry he’d been with her the day before. But she could be so stubborn when she wanted to be.

  Oliver smiled. He loved that about her—her dedication, her heart, and her commitment to her profession. Why had he gotten so angry? He was frightened. He could admit that now. It was pure fear. He’d lost Anna, and now just as he was beginning to realize how much he loved Tess, the fear of losing her hit hard.

  His own advice echoed in his mind: “It’s not weak to admit the truth to the one you love.”

  I’ll call her, he thought. As soon as I get home, I’ll call her.

  But his day was interrupted when he reached the church grounds. Tami had regained consciousness, and local news crews had descended on the town, asking not only about Tami, but about the shooting at Faith’s Place. And Oliver saw the press release. They had a name and a picture of the missing gunman. That made him relax. In today’s digital media, that picture would be everywhere, and the man would be caught soon, he was sure of it.

  Tess, Oliver learned, was in Shady Cove, where they’d found Blakely’s truck. It was late in the afternoon before Oliver actually entered his home. He hadn’t heard from Tess, and that bothered him. He picked up the phone to call her and then set it down. Better to do this in person. Olive
r decided to drive to her house. Once there, he planned to pour his heart out and, hopefully with Tess, figure out their relationship once and for all.

  Oliver showered and changed his clothes. When he checked his phone before leaving the house, he saw there was a message from Tess and his heart sang.

  “Oh, Lord,” he breathed, “help us to make this right.”

  He was just about to listen to the message Tess left when a knock at the door distracted him. Maybe it was her. He pulled the door open, smile dying when he saw a tall man wearing a dark suit standing on his porch.

  “Pastor Macpherson?”

  “Yes.”

  The man held up an ID card. Oliver saw FBI before the man quickly put the ID back in his pocket. “I’m Special Agent Ferguson. Agent Bass sent me to investigate the shooting yesterday. I was told that you helped find a safe place for Roberta.”

  –––

  Tess arrived back home at dinnertime, still tired from the day before. She planned on making a bite to eat and filing her reports at home. It was frustrating that they now knew who their suspect was, but they couldn’t find him. But his picture was everywhere. Steve had sent out an urgent BOLO, highlighting the fact that this guy was armed and dangerous, so it would just be a matter of time.

  Her phone rang as she climbed out of the SUV.

  “Steve, tell me you caught him.”

  “Well . . .”

  Tess stopped at her front door. “You found him?”

  “I was called out to assist Medford PD at the airport Marriott. Guy fell down the stairs, looks like he broke his neck. They found an ID in his pocket, California DL, issued to Jim Smith.”

  Tess stood stock-still at her front door. “Our gunman died falling down the stairs?”

  “Well, there is no way this guy is Jim Smith. Coroner turned him over, straightened him out. Height and weight are close, but that’s it.”