Of course, it was Crawford’s voice she wanted most to hear, but she didn’t have the number of the burner phone he’d been using to communicate with Harry…until he had stopped communicating.
When her phone finally did ring, Neal Lester’s name appeared in the LED. Breathlessly, she answered.
He said, “I’m calling on Crawford’s behalf.”
“He’s all right?”
“He’s fine, just occupied.”
Her sob of relief was so forceful, it hurt her breastbone. “You swear? He’s all right?”
“Yes. He’s been talking everybody through what went down. It’s a madhouse.”
“I know. I’m here.”
“Where?”
“Here. Parked on the shoulder just west of the turnoff.”
He paused briefly, then said, “I’ll meet you at the barricade. Five minutes.”
Even on foot, she made it there before he did. He pulled up in his sedan on the other side of the barricade, got out, spoke to one of the officers keeping people out, and ducked under the barrier to reach her.
“What are you doing out here?”
“I couldn’t just go home and sit. Tell me what’s happened. Has Otterman been arrested?”
“He’s dead. Bullet to the head. Knee shot out. I’ll spare you the more gruesome details.”
“Crawford…?”
“Yes.”
She clung to every word as Neal described the situation. When he stopped to take a breath, she said, “The Rangers had discovered Otterman’s connection to Manuel Fuentes. That’s why they were so anxious to reach Crawford.”
He nodded. “Otterman admitted to Crawford his illegal gun trade. The bodyguard Crawford stuffed in the trunk of Smitty’s car was mad as hell for being wrapped up in duct tape, but he fared better than his coworker, whose body was found half in, half out of the water. Dead. After hearing about his buddy, and the carnage inside the shack, he was more than willing to open up about the gun running.”
The word “carnage” caused her to shudder. “But Crawford’s all right?” She couldn’t have confirmed it enough times.
He averted his gaze. “He is. But, well, his father didn’t make it.”
She fell back a step. “What? Conrad was here?”
“You know him?”
“Tell me!”
He told her about the abduction. “The guy locked in the trunk said they had picked up Mr. Hunt early today, brought him here. He had deep ligature marks on his wrists and ankles. Otterman finished him off. Crawford is…” He looked aside and shook his head.
She covered her mouth with her hand. “Can you take me to him?”
“No. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. You don’t want to see him now. Trust me. He went a little crazy when he heard you were in the vicinity. He’s—” Whatever Neal was about to say, he changed his mind. “You should go home, Judge Spencer. He’s going to be tied up for a long while yet. Wait for him to contact you.”
Since Crawford hadn’t called her himself, she had little room to argue. Neal was about to turn away, when she stopped him. “Thank you for coming to tell me all this in person. I wouldn’t have wanted to hear it over the telephone.”
“I felt I owed Crawford a courtesy,” he said, looking uneasy. “Owed one to both of you.” He gave her a brusque nod and ducked beneath the barricade.
She walked back toward her car, resentful of the chaos going on around her—the endless number of official vehicles with their obnoxious flashing lights reminded her of a garish midway. The clustered bystanders were swapping rumors about the body count, speculating on who had died and who had lived to tell about it. She wanted to scream at all of them to shut up.
When she reached her car, she got in and laid her forehead on the steering wheel.
“Drive, judge.”
Nearly jumping out of her skin, she whipped her head around, gasping his name when she saw the amount of blood soaking his clothes.
The massive red stain was fresh enough to show up shiny in the kaleidoscope of flashing red, white, and blue lights around them. His eyes glinted at her from shadowed sockets. His forehead was beaded with sweat, strands of hair plastered to it.
He remained perfectly still, sprawled in the corner of the backseat, left leg stretched out along it, the toe of his blood-spattered cowboy boot pointing toward the ceiling of the car. His right leg was bent at the knee. His right hand was resting on it, holding a wicked-looking pistol.
He said, “It’s not my blood.”
“I heard.”
Looking down over his long torso, he gave a gravelly, bitter laugh. “He was dead before he hit the ground, but I wanted to make sure. Dumb move. Ruined this shirt, and it was one of my favorites.”
Up ahead, officers had begun moving along the line of spectator vehicles, motioning the motorists to clear the area. She had to either do as he asked or be caught with him inside her car.
“Sergeant Lester told me that you’d—”
“Shot the son of a bitch? That’s true. He’s dead. Now, drive.”
God bless her, she didn’t argue. Without further discussion, she started the car, then pulled it onto the road.
“You should be more careful about leaving your car door unlocked,” he said. “But I’m glad you did.”