“It’s me,” I said. “I am in Kennebago again and about to go on a raid into the house of a man named Logan Dyer. You’re going to hear about him soon. He murdered eleven people up at Don Foss Logging. I think he killed Adam, too. He’s on a vigilante crusade to kill sex offenders. Anyway, he’s dangerous. Stacey, I am so sorry for having lied to you before. And I know you must be grieving for your friends in ways I can’t even imagine. But I just wanted you to know, in case something happens to me tonight, that I love you.”
I felt sick to my stomach when I hung up. But there was nothing more to do now except to get ready. I attached my service weapon, a SIG Sauer P226, to my belt. I unlocked my Mossberg 590A1 from its case and hung it from its sling over my shoulder. I took up my catch pole with the noose on one end. Then I removed my brand-new talonproof glove from behind the seat. I had thought I might need the bite sleeve for Shadow.
Strange the way things work out.
I found Clegg putting on his ballistic vest at his vehicle. He seemed to have gained weight since he had last adjusted the Velcro straps holding it in place. He was having trouble getting the fit right.
“Did you get the warrant?” I asked him.
“Got the warrant. Also put out a BOLO.” The acronym had replaced APB in police jargon. It stood for “Be on the lookout.”
“Can I help you with that?” I asked, meaning his vest.
“No, I’ve got it.”
“How well do you know Dyer?” I asked.
“Logan? I’ve know him his whole life. I started my career in law enforcement just like Russo, doing security up at Widowmaker. I knew Logan’s dad. Scott was a good man right up until the crash that killed his wife and daughter. Afterward, he was broken. He did his best, but you could see it in his eyes, hopelessness. The chairlift accident was what pushed him over the edge. He’d tried to get the owners to shut that lift down, but they’d refused. It didn’t matter. Everyone blamed him, and he blamed himself.”
Having finally secured his vest, the detective pulled his parka back on over it. His face had turned a shade of purple from the exertion.
“Logan wasn’t more than eighteen when Scott shot himself,” Clegg continued. “Eighteen or nineteen. And then suddenly his father was dead, and he was living alone in that big house. I hadn’t seen him in a while before the other day. But I noticed he’d let himself go. He used to be a handsome kid. Shy as hell, though. Scott told me once that if a girl ever winked at Logan, he’d probably faint dead away.”
“Detective!” someone called from the darkness.
But Clegg wasn’t finished saying what he needed to say. “I knocked on his door first thing this morning, before I found the carnage up at Foss’s, but there was no answer. I heard the dogs barking, though, and thought that seemed strange. Later, when we were searching outside his house, I didn’t want to admit to myself what I already knew. Sometimes I think the best part of this job is getting to know the people in your community. It’s also the worst thing.”
I knew what he meant.
“Let’s go get this over with,” the detective said, moving past me down the hill.
If Dyer was at large, hunting sex offenders, then it was unlikely we were going to be charging into a firefight. Some criminals had been known to booby-trap their properties—I knew so firsthand—but I suspected the biggest danger we would face, breaching the building, would be Dyer’s two hounds.
The dogs were baying even more loudly and aggressively. Their supersensory hearing had picked up the sound of approaching vehicles and voices. Back up the hill, in the bed of my truck, Shadow responded with occasional howls, which had officers looking at one another with startled expressions.
A fresh-faced deputy, whom I’d never met, took a look at my gloves and catch pole and said, “You on dog duty?”
“I will be if needed.”
The young guy had his shotgun already in his hands and wasn’t practicing particularly good muzzle control. His name tag said Cauoette. “Man, I am pumped. It’s like an adrenaline high.”
I had a hunch about him. “When did you graduate from the Academy?”
“I’m scheduled to go this spring. Is it as tough as they say? I’m hoping it is. What’s that term? Crucible of fire?”
If Cauoette didn’t wash out after the first week, I would be surprised. I stepped clear of the rookie and made a vow to myself that as we entered the building I would stay behind him, where he couldn’t mistakenly blow a hole in my back.
Clegg turned to face the assembled officers. I counted seven besides myself: two state troopers, four officers from the sheriff’s department, and a state police forensics technician who would not be part of the assault.
Then it hit me: Russo was missing. Where had he gone? I hadn’t noticed his SUV leaving, but I had been distracted with Shadow and thinking about Stacey. I would have thought a competitive shooter, currently employed as a glorified security guard, would have been eager to get in on a no-knock raid.
“Gather round, people!” said Clegg. “So here’s how we’re going to do this. We’re going in two teams.”
“Aren’t there three doors?” asked a trooper behind me.
“We’ll have a team posted outside the third one. But we have dogs to deal with inside and only two officers with bite sleeves.”