Identity

“It’s him, Quentin. I swear I feel it in my guts.”

“Let’s bring the sheriff in on it. He’s got a place. You don’t buy all that food and booze for a damn road trip or when you’re in a motel.”

“He could have hostages—not his style—but there are homes and small ranches within a half hour’s drive of Two Springs. Or maybe there’s a place that’s been abandoned. Frozen food means he has refrigeration and a stove or a microwave. Coming into town, making at least two stops means he feels safe.”

As they moved, fast, to the sheriff’s office, they scanned the streets.

“He could still be here,” Morrison said. “But that’s unlikely. Frozen food.”

“Is going to melt pretty quick in this heat. He has to be close.”

The sheriff’s office had an outer room with a dispatch desk, and two more for the pair of deputies who both worked part-time. In the back, it held two cells, a unisex bathroom, and a makeshift counter for a hot plate and the coffeepot on it.

The AC whirled madly, and sent the smell of bad coffee everywhere.

Sheriff Neederman, a rawboned, sunbaked man of about forty-five, had his own office—with the door open.

“Well, FBI.” He stood from his desk. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”

“Lucy Wigg from Two Springs Market and Kyle Givens from Givens Liquors and Beer just identified Gavin Rozwell from our sketch. He was in both places this morning.”

“Well, hell. Are they sure of that?”

“Sure enough. He stocked up on food—including frozen products—and alcohol, which indicates he’s found a hole close by. Close enough. We need to start a search.”

“We’ll sure help with that. I’ve got one deputy out on a call, and I’ll bring the other one in. I’ll notify state, have some head in here.”

“He’s driving a red Chevy pickup. Older model, from what we’re told. You know the area, Sheriff. Let’s have some best guesses.”

“Let me make those calls and think on it.”

When he had, he spread out a map. “These houses here, here? Few and far between maybe, but people’ll notice a stranger. Different story when you move out here, or into the mountains. Hardscrabble ranches, hardscrabble people who live that life because they don’t want people around. And you’ll have your preppers, survivalists, anti-every-fucking-thing types. They wouldn’t set out the welcome mat for him—or us, come to it.”

“Leaning to that, who lives alone? No family—too much trouble,” Beck said to her partner. “Easier to take down one person. He’d want privacy if he decided to dig a hole.”

“There’s Riley—former marine—piss and vinegar in one package.” Neederman tapped on the map. “His place is a damn fortress. And there’s Jane Boot—her husband passed awhile back, but she stuck. Comes in, sells eggs, goat’s milk about once a month. Tough as nails, prepping for war or the Rapture, whichever comes first.”

“The woman,” Morrison said. “He’d go for the woman before he’d take on a marine.”

“Let’s go find out.”

“I’ll lead the way. She’s got no phone—doesn’t believe in them—and she’s got her place gated and barbed wired off. I’ve got bolt cutters in the truck. If she’s back there milking that damn goat, she is gonna be pissed.”

Twenty minutes later, they pulled up at the open gate.

Neederman angled his truck across it to block any exit, then stepped out. He picked up a set of keys, shook his head when Beck opened her window.

“No way Jane would leave this gate open. Keys on the ground. Son of a bitch.”

“Do you have body armor, Sheriff?”

He tipped back his hat. “Yeah, yeah. Son of a bitch,” he said again. “She’d never leave the gate open.”

“Let’s suit up. Call for backup. My partner and I will take the lead from here. He’s our quarry.”

He aimed a hard look at Morrison. “If he hurt Jane, he’s mine now, too.”

After they’d put on vests, they drove through the gate.

“He’s not here anymore, Tee. He got a whiff of us, that’s what this means.”

Face grim, she kept driving.

“There’s the red truck, and groceries all over the ground. Front door open, that outbuilding door open.”

“Somebody had a temper tantrum,” Morrison muttered.

“Looks like it, but let’s not get shot being wrong.”

She drove between the outbuilding and the cabin, and using the car as a shield, they got out.

“Gavin Rozwell! This is the FBI. Come out with your hands up.”

No sound but chickens clucking, pigs rooting.

She picked up a rock, tossed it to draw fire. And nothing stirred. She tossed another so it banged against the house.

“Okay, Quentin, let’s clear it.”

They came out of cover, stayed low as they ran to the door. He swept first, went in high as she swept and went low.

The place smelled of sweat and dust and looked like the scene of a bar fight.

They cleared it, and the shed.

“She has a Ford Ranger pickup, a … 2015 or ’16, I think—and I’ll confirm that,” Neederman told them. “Blue, a medium blue, and I’ll get the plates. Would he have taken her with him?”

“That’s very doubtful.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m going to look around for her,” he told Beck. “And the goat.”

“He had to see us, this morning. He had to see us, or why run like this after buying all the food?” Beck had to stop herself from kicking the melting packages. “He came out of the market and saw us. Or he’d loaded up already. Likely that. He got in the truck, drove here, did this, got what he wanted, and went.”

“Running again, Tee.” Because they both needed it, he put a hand on her shoulder. “He’s running again, running scared and mad with it. Let’s get the alerts out on her truck.”

“She’s back here!” Neederman called out. “And the goat. Jesus, what’s left of them’s back here. He just dumped her on the ground,” he said when they joined him. “Just tossed her on the ground for the scavengers.”





Chapter Thirty



Morgan opened the door for Jake on a sultry midmorning that begged for storms.

“Come in. Should I make coffee? Are we going to need it?”

He shut the door behind him. “Why don’t we go for something cold. Your ladies around?”

“No, they’re at work.”

Whatever he’d come to tell her, it was bad. She felt the bad crawling under her skin.

“I don’t think the sun tea’s finished yet, but we’ve got Cokes.”

“That’ll be great. Morgan, are you okay hearing about Rozwell from me? You can contact the FBI if you want it straight from the source.”

“I appreciate you taking the time to tell me yourself.” Steady, she thought, look how steady her hands were as she filled glasses with ice. The panic days were over.

“He killed someone else, didn’t he? I can just feel it knotted in my stomach.”

“Yes. Why don’t we sit down here and I’ll tell you everything they gave me. I’ll tell you what happened yesterday in Nevada.”