But the shooter’s cries were anything but stable. “She’s dead. She’s dead. Dead, dead, dead.”
Lance and Morgan shared an uh-oh glance. Whatever slim grasp their gun-toting camper had on reality, he was losing it.
“Keep talking,” Lance whispered. “I’ll try to get behind him while you distract him.”
Morgan nodded, raising her voice to ask, “Who’s dead?”
“The girl. So pretty. So young. No one can help her now.” The voice rose with anger.
“Did you see who killed her?” Morgan asked.
“So much blood.” The sobbing ceased, the voice shifting to a disturbing singsong. “Everywhere.”
Carefully placing each foot on solid, debris-free dirt, Lance kept his footsteps silent. He slipped behind another tree, then another. With painstaking steps, he worked his way through the trees.
“I’d like to talk to you,” Morgan said. “Would that be all right?”
“No. No talking.” The shooter howled. “Just leave me alone. I want to be alone. I can’t hurt anyone if I’m alone.”
Lance eased around the trunk of a tree and got his first glimpse of the shooter. A man dressed in desert camos sat with his back to a tree. A bolt-action hunting rifle rested across his thighs. He’d streaked his face with dirt as camouflage. His eyes looked wild and white against the dirt. The circles under his eyes were so dark and deep, he could have been a cadaver. Underneath the dirt, his cheekbones stood in sharp relief to his skeletal face.
He wiped a hand across his face, his expression a heartbreaking combination of confusion and devastation. Tears left clean rivulets from his eyes to his jaw.
“I’m sorry,” Morgan called. “If you promise not to shoot, we’ll leave now, and we won’t bother you again.”
“Go!” he screamed, and then he began to beat his head against the tree trunk at his back.
The thin sound of a siren floated through the air. Damn it! Why hadn’t they come in quietly? Morgan might have talked the man down. There was no chance of that happening now.
The siren shut off, but it was too late. Fear lit the shooter’s eyes. He jumped to his feet, fumbled in his panic, and dropped his rifle. He scrambled toward it. Lance took the split-second opportunity to holster his gun and dive for the man’s midsection. They went down in a tangle of limbs and rolled across the ground. Lance kicked the rifle away.
Expecting a feral response, he was shocked when the shooter shifted into hand-to-hand mode. The shooter performed an instinctual, textbook sweep, tossing Lance off his body. Lance landed on his back. A forearm to his throat pinned him to the ground.
Lance wheezed. Stars peppered his vision. Bucking to upset the shooter’s balance, Lance grabbed the forearm with both hands. Trapping the man’s foot, he bridged over his shoulder and reversed their positions.
The shooter was malnourished and shaky. Once his initial burst of adrenaline waned, his efforts weakened, and he was reduced to kicking and bucking under Lance’s body. His eyes took on a desperate light. Panic and bewilderment shone in his dilated pupils. The man obviously suffered from some mental illness.
But crazy was dangerous. Despite his pity, Lance needed the man immobilized to ensure Morgan’s safety.
“Freeze!” Morgan shouted. “Or I’ll shoot.”
Lance did. So did the shooter.
Less than ten feet away, Morgan held the rifle in a comfortable grip. She pointed it at the shooter. “Don’t even think about moving. I’m an excellent shot.”
Lance flipped the shooter onto his belly, brought both of his arms to the small of his back, and pinned him with a knee. “Do you see something to restrain him?”
“Do you have him?”
“I do.”
“Here.” Morgan stooped, fished in the shooter’s backpack, and came out with a piece of nylon rope.
Lance fastened the shooter’s wrists together, and then rolled him over and hauled him into a sitting position. Agitated, he immediately began to rock back and forth. He refused to make eye contact, staring at his boots instead.
Sirens blared louder. Car doors opened and shut.
“In here,” Lance shouted. “We have the situation contained.”
Bodies crashed through the brush. Carl Ripton and another uniform burst from the trees, weapons drawn. Lance didn’t recognize the second officer. New hire?
“Lower the rifle, ma’am. Both of you put your hands on your head. Interlace your fingers,” Cop Two ordered, pointing his handgun at Morgan.
She complied, and Carl took the weapon.
“On your knees!” Cop Two yelled at Lance.
“I know them,” Carl said. “You can stand down.” He turned to Lance. “What happened?”
Lance explained as he maintained his grip on the now-limp man on the ground. “He’s been saying odd things about a dead girl and blood. That little camp over there is his.”
“Let’s put him in the back of the car.” Carl pointed at his companion.
“He needs a bath.” Cop Two grimaced as he handcuffed the shooter and hauled him to his feet.
He held the man still while Carl patted him down. He emptied Camo Man’s pockets, tossing a folding knife, some loose change, and a wallet to the ground. Carl opened the wallet and skimmed through it. “His name is Dean Voss.” Carl turned to the man. “Dean? Want to tell me why you were shooting at these people?”
“The girl is dead, and it’s all my fault.” Dean stared at his boots. “They’re coming to get me.”
“Who is coming to get you?” Carl asked in a gentle voice.
Dean lifted his gaze. The eyes that swept over them were opened wide with terror. “You can’t lock me up. They’ll find me. They’ll kill me. I have to run. I have to hide.”
“It’s all right. We won’t let anyone get you,” Carl said.
But Dean wasn’t convinced. He turned and tried to pull away from the uniform. Carl took his opposite arm. Dean went ballistic, but his bound arms and weakened condition didn’t allow for much opposition. Carl and Cop Two held him steady until he stopped struggling and stood still, shaky, limp, and pathetic.
“Let’s get him out of here.” Carl accompanied the second cop and Dean back to the road. He returned in a few minutes. “He’s on his way to the holding cell, but I expect he’ll be transferred to a psychiatric facility. Doesn’t take an expert to see that he’s unstable.”
“Who’s the new guy?” Lance asked.
“Rookie.” Carl nodded. “This is his third day. He’s very enthusiastic. Sorry about him blasting his siren.”
“I remember those days,” Lance said. “We were all that enthusiastic at the start.”
Lance and Morgan gave Carl their statements, making sure to highlight Dean’s outbursts about the dead girl and blood.
Morgan brushed dirt and dead leaves from her skirt. Dirt and sweat stained her blouse. Her face was pale and her voice shaky. Scratches crisscrossed her calves.
Carl nodded. “I’ll call for a forensics team to go through his camp. Brody is on his way. He wants to talk to both of you.”