Brady doesn’t wait for an answer. “I know I am. I know him. He was charming and gracious and humble. Probably confided in you, too, Detective. He wouldn’t bother with the sheriff. He decided you were the brains of the operation. The moral compass, too, he’d presume, because he’s a sexist asshole, and you know the problem with being a sociopath? You’re so busy acting your role that you can’t see through the performances of others. He bought the sheriff’s redneck routine and your quiet-but-thoughtful one. Am I right? Did he confess to you? Admit he made mistakes? Of course he did.”
I say nothing.
Brady continues, “I bet he volunteered to help search for me. Insisted on it. He feels so bad about the situation that he wants to help find me. Take the risks alongside you two. The truth? He doesn’t trust you. He wanted to be there when you caught me, to make sure you brought me in and maybe use the opportunity to stage a tragic accident.”
“Yeah,” Dalton says. “That explains why he offered to stay behind as hostage. In Casey’s place.”
“Because that guaranteed you’d turn me over to those savages.”
“Except he escaped,” I say.
Brady finally goes silent. At least a minute passes.
“Can’t explain that away?” Dalton says.
“No, Sheriff, I can’t. I could speculate that he overheard something that made him think he might not survive the exchange. But that’s speculation. I only know something happened in that camp, and he decided he’d overstayed his welcome. I bet he took out a few of the locals on his way, too.”
“Actually, no,” I say. “He hurt a woman, but he left her alive and made his escape.”
“Okay, that makes sense. It’s hard to keep pretending you’re a good guy if—”
“Down!” Dalton shouts.
He falls onto me and, for a moment, I think he’s been hit. Then I realize he’s pinning me down. There’s a shot. Then Storm lets out a yelp of pain.
57
My dog has been shot. There’s a sniper in the trees, and Storm has been shot. I try to scramble up, but Dalton holds me fast, whispering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Casey.”
I fight the urge to snarl at him. To get free of him. To get to her.
I dig my fingers into the ground to hold myself still, and I listen, as hard as I can. After a moment, I hear a labored pant, each breath ending in a whimper.
She’s been shot.
Definitely shot.
As I twist toward her, I catch a blur of motion. It’s Kenny rolling into the undergrowth, his arms around Storm.
“I’ve got—” Kenny starts.
Another shot. Kenny’s whole body jerks.
Dalton starts to leap up. I tackle and yank him into the undergrowth.
“Careful,” I say. “We have to be careful.”
He nods, and we creep on our bellies. We’re on the same side of the path as Kenny and Storm, and I can see their shapes ahead.
As we move, I hear Jacob whispering, “You’re okay, you’re okay, just stay still. Play dead.”
“Kenny?” I whisper, as loudly as I dare.
“I’ve got him,” Jacob whispers back. “I have Kenny and Storm. Stay down. Casey. Keep Eric down. Stay where you are. Do not move.”
He’s right. Any movement we make is going to draw fire. I reach out for Dalton’s hand and clasp it, and we lie there, listening to Kenny’s ragged breathing.
That’s when I see Brady crawling away.
Dalton squeezes my hand hard, getting my attention, and then he shakes his head.
Let him go.
Don’t take the risk of going after him.
But I have to, don’t I? As long as Oliver Brady is out there, people will keep dying.
I look in the direction of the shots. I see nothing. It isn’t like the city, where I could scan the buildings and know which is most likely to hold the gunman. This is a forest filled with towering trees, all perfect for a sniper.
And as long as this gunman is out there, we are sitting ducks. Eventually we need to come out, and all the sniper has to do is track us and wait for us to stop moving.
So we can’t stop moving.
We can’t wait for the shooter to figure out where we are. We have a wounded man and dog, and we need to get them someplace safe.
I watch Brady sneak off, and I wait for Dalton to relax, convinced I’m giving up on my prey. Then I leap up to a crouch, call “Get them someplace safe!” and break into a run.
Dalton grabs for me. His fingers brush my leg. But I’m gone.
I zigzag. One shot fires into a tree several feet away. Another does the same. I’m careful, though, moving up, down, left, right, zipping behind every tree and bush in my path.
Behind me, Dalton whispers urgently to Jacob. I can’t slow enough to focus on words, but I know Dalton’s trusting that I’m okay while he gets the others to safety.
Brady hears me coming. He straightens to run faster. A shot hits a tree, clearly intended for me, but when he hears that hit, and he sprawls into a home-plate slide. I sprint and leap on his back. He bucks. I grab his still-bound wrists and wrench them so hard he howls.
“Shut the hell up,” I say, slamming his head into the dirt. “I’m doing you a favor. Exactly how long do you think you’d survive out here with your hands tied behind your back?”
He glowers over his shoulder.
“Yeah, yeah,” I whisper. “I’m a stone-cold bitch. I’ve heard it already. You would do well to note that you’re still alive, when it would be a hell of a lot more convenient for me to change that. I will kill you, Oliver, but I need a reason. So don’t give me one.”
I wait until I’m sure the shots have stopped, the sniper trying to find targets again. I’m checking whether we’re hidden enough to move when something thumps in the trees to my right. A family of ptarmigan explodes from the bushes, startled by whatever Dalton must have thrown at them.
The sniper fires towards the birds.
I prod Brady forward with “Move!” and “Stay down.”
He does both. I steer him through the clearest patch of forest floor, where we don’t make enough noise to draw the sniper’s attention. The forest has gone silent again. Then there’s a shot, one too loud to be the sniper. A tremendous crash. Brady dives. I grab him by the collar and propel him forward.
“That’s Eric providing cover,” I say.
This time, he’s fired his gun at a dying sapling or dead branch, something that will break and fall, the noise again drawing the sniper’s attention.
I get Brady behind rocks. We’re back in the foothills. There’s no conveniently located cave this time, but we wind through the rocks and tree cover until I see Dalton ahead, flagging me. I arrive to see he’s found a sheltered spot where he’s moved the others.
I spot Storm first. Dalton whispers, “She’s fine. Bullet grazed a hind leg. She can’t run, but she’s fine.”
I crawl to her and rub her neck, and she whines but stays lying down, muzzle on her paws, her gaze on . . .
Her gaze on Kenny.
I see him, and I stifle a gasp. He’s lying on his stomach, his head to the side, eyes closed. Eyes closed, not moving.
As I scramble over, Jacob says, “He’s unconscious, but he’s . . .”
Jacob looks at Dalton.
“Where did he . . . ?” I trail off as I see the answer.
Kenny has been shot in the back. The lower back, the bullet passing through near his spine.
I forget that there’s a sniper out there and a possible killer beside us. That doesn’t matter. Kenny has been shot, and this is not a graze or a bullet passing through soft tissue. This is . . .
I drop beside him. I check his vital signs first. They’re strong enough to suggest he’s only fainted. He isn’t in shock, not from internal bleeding or neurogenic shock—the injury is too low on his back for that.
I peel up his jacket and shirt, as carefully as I can. It’s soaked with blood, front and back, but the bleeding is slow.
I tend to the injury as best I can while Dalton stands guard. It’s quiet out there. Our sniper seems to have a remarkably short attention span. He—or she—is not the trained professional we first thought. With the exception of Kenny, everyone has suffered only minor injuries. Given Kenny, though, the intent does seem lethal. The sniper just doesn’t have the skills to pull it off without a perfect target. The wild shots support that theory, as does the fact that it’s been easy to draw his fire.