The kid spent two weeks in a hospital recovering. He was really never quite the same. Popular and preppy before, Smash Mouth (that’s what Raynor called him) turned moody and withdrawn. At a class reunion years later, Raynor heard that Smash Mouth, then in his twenties, had overdosed on painkillers while living in his parents’ basement.
But all that happened after the hunt; after the grouse burst from the thicket, its wings flapping wildly for flight; after Raynor pulled the trigger and peppered the bird’s meaty chest with shot; after the bird went into a hapless tailspin before gravity did its job; after his father burst from their hiding place to confirm the kill. Raynor watched his father trudge through the dense grasses with a look of joy bordering on reverence.
How can he be smiling? Raynor thought.
Raynor’s bottom bled into his underwear a full day after his beating. He had to squat to take a crap, and would have to do so for at least a week. The worst part of all was that he would get another thrashing, probably sometime soon, over something just as stupid as those video games.
Truman picked up the bird and held it up for Raynor to see. A broad smile cut his face.
But Raynor wasn’t smiling. He was back on his bed, his pants down to his ankles, his teeth clenched together, waiting with dreaded anticipation for the next blow from his daddy’s leather whip.
Everything went black.
But it couldn’t have been all black, or he’d have missed his target. He remembered the tension against his finger as he pulled the trigger. He remembered the crack and an echo like a peal of thunder. He remembered seeing his father’s neck explode, blood spewing from several holes as if pumped through a strainer, a confused look replacing the beam of pride.
Gravity took his father down, same as it did that dead bird. Eventually the police came. Raynor refused to leave his father’s side. He was sputtering and crying, all very real because he was deeply upset. He loved his father, but hated what his father did to him. None of that ever came up during the investigation. He never spoke a word of the abuse. His brothers never suspected their own kin capable of murder, or they didn’t share the theory if they did.
Truman Sinclair’s death was later ruled a tragic hunting accident.
Raynor’s punishment was the guilt he would carry for the remainder of his days. It hurt a lot less than the belt, though he accepted that he did miss his father, strange as that was to admit. He hunted as a reminder of the better times. Hunting in Virginia was damn good sport, with big game like elk, bear, and deer to bag and plenty of birds to shoot.
Raynor wasn’t so lost in thought that he failed to notice Angie drive past his car. He waited a few beats before pulling out into traffic behind her. He could bag all the elk he wanted, but nothing exhilarated him quite like hunting people.
CHAPTER 31
“Back at it” meant Angie was back in her car—the Taurus with a bullet hole in the rear—and Mike was in his—the little red Corolla. Angie would submit the repair bill to Greg Jessup, along with the charges for Mike’s hotel room and a host of other expenses they’d racked up on this case. Angie also was back to having aching legs, a stiff back, and a bloated belly, this time from the stale bagel she ate because she couldn’t find a decent meal in the neighborhood.
They were down the street from the brothel, or the alleged brothel as the Baltimore PD seemed to think of it. The response (or lack thereof) infuriated Angie, who put aside her fears about Elise and another murder-suicide bloodbath. She wanted more engagement from law enforcement, though it went without saying she wanted a different outcome.
She’d brought two-way radios so she and Mike could communicate without using up cell phone minutes.
“Just charge Papa Greg for the overage,” Mike suggested.
“I’ll handle the billing and you talk to me on the radio from now on,” Angie replied, not curt, but leaving no room for negotiation.
Mike covered one side of the busy two-way road. Angie, who was parked about a hundred yards away from him, covered the other. It was relatively easy to maintain a proper stakeout in the daylight, under the cover of heavy pedestrian and vehicle traffic. With temporary tinting to her windows, she didn’t worry about Casper and Buggy spotting her.
Even so, she had no intention of being in this for the long haul. She wanted Nadine to call. Every minute, it seemed, she was picking up her phone, glancing at the display, cradling it in her hand, waiting for the vibration of text, the chime of her ringtone.
The phone finally rang, but it was her father. She went through a health check with him. He assured her he was doing just fine. She believed him enough, and told him she was back in Baltimore. Her dad sounded more worried about her than she did about him. But he was used to her job and the dangers it brought, and he accepted those dangers with the expected degree of reluctance.