Fletcher shrugged. “Honestly? I think it’s time we got out of here. Let Davidson come in and take over, or hand it to the Feds. Though how he missed this, I don’t know. But I think it’s best you leave Lynchburg now. Just in case.”
She looked around the tiny cabin. Who were you? Why me? What in the world drew you to me? “You’re right, Fletch. The man’s dead. It’s not like he can hurt me.”
Xander had been poking around the pictures while they talked, moving them aside carefully with the pencil. He said, “Take a look at this.”
Sam didn’t want to, but she did. Behind the pinned-up detritus of her life, there was a safe built into the wall. “What’s in there?”
Fletcher shrugged. “The better question is, how do we get in?”
Xander glanced back over his shoulder at Sam. They said the words at the same time.
“The key.”
“What key?”
Sam said, “Benedict gave me a key before he left. He said Savage told him I’d know what to do with it. Xander, do you have it?” But he was already fitting the small silver key into the slot. With a small creak, the safe unlocked.
Inside was a tan envelope, legal size, and a white letter-sized envelope with Dr. Samantha Owens printed in careful letters. She recognized Savage’s handwriting.
Xander opened the bigger envelope. “Ah, good. A copy of Savage’s will. We’ll take this with us.” He looked at Sam. “Fletcher told me the law office where Benedict worked was claiming there was no file on Savage in their system. Looks like Savage was suspicious of them, as well, and wasn’t taking chances.”
“What’s in the other envelope?”
They heard Thor begin to bark, a warning that someone was coming.
“Shit,” Fletcher said. “Get that wall back up where it’s supposed to be.” He took the will and the letter and stashed them both down his pants, snug against his back, and dropped his shirt down over them. He pulled his Glock and stepped in front of Sam, to the door.
Xander put the wall back into place and went to stand next to Fletcher. He didn’t have a weapon, but he didn’t need one. He could handle things with his bare hands, if he had to.
The warning barks ceased. The nose of an LPD patrol car eased into the lane in front of the house and stopped. June Davidson got out, gun drawn, his head swiveling back and forth between Fletcher’s car and the cabin.
“Detective Fletcher? Dr. Owens? You in there? Everything okay? We got a report about a prowler out here in the woods. Thought it might be the guy who showed up at Hoyle’s.”
Fletcher relaxed a bit, gave Xander a warning look, but didn’t drop his gun hand. He went to the door, called out, “It’s just us.”
Davidson didn’t put his gun away. “What in the world are you doing out here? I thought you were headed to the lab.”
“We were, but Dr. Owens decided she wanted to see the scene, and I knew you were busy. We’ve had a chance to look it over, and she’s comfortable with her findings.”
Davidson was moving closer slowly. Xander pulled Sam back away from the door.
Fletcher stepped out and raised his hands, a friendly gesture except for the Glock in his right palm. “Slow down, there, fella. You put yours away, I’ll put mine away.”
Davidson smiled. “I don’t think so. You go first.”
“Come on, man. This is ridiculous. Put your fucking weapon down.”
“I don’t believe I like your tone.”
Xander started edging Sam toward the back of the house. He whispered, “We can go out the back, through the garden.”
Sotto voce, she replied, “I’m not leaving Fletch.”
“He knows what he’s doing. Come on, damn it, or I’ll pick you up and carry you out.”
He started to pull on her arm, and he was too strong; she had no choice but to follow. They’d just reached the back door when she heard Fletcher scream, “Stop!” and the bullets started to fly.
Chapter
18
A BULLET WHIZZES past my head like a supercharged bumblebee and strikes the elm tree to my right, scattering bark and wood chips. The birds shoot into the air and I duck instinctively, ripping the hat off my head, cursing myself for forgetting it. It was clearly the target. I toss it away. It hangs on a bush and spins lazily.
I am not a fan of guns. I know how to use them, all kinds, from sniper rifles to shotguns, semiautomatic pistols to six-shooters. And I know how well they work, as a deterrent, or to bring down dinner. But when they’re pointed at human flesh, something rises in me and I feel the urge to scream. So much hatred, so many deaths that could be prevented. Wars and school shootings and suicides and gangs. It hurts me.
Then again, everything hurts me.