? ? ?
I HAD BEEN dancing around this point, trying to avoid staring it in the eye. The idea that events of thirty-four years ago, however terrifying, had some bearing on my present safety seemed, frankly, ridiculous. I might never know for certain what motive someone had had, all those years ago, to turn a gun on Boone and Sadie Rawson. But whatever it was, I appeared to have been an accidental victim. Collateral damage. The killer hadn’t bothered to finish me off then, when it would have been easy. He had not considered me a threat. And then he’d gotten away with murder for more than thirty years. Why come after me now? Anyone who’d read a newspaper in the last week understood that I remembered nothing, could identify no one.
I know, I know. The bullet. But Beamer Beasley had implied that it wouldn’t be of great use to investigators without some sample to match it against. And Beasley himself hadn’t seemed terribly concerned about my safety. So, yes, I grasped that the bullet posed a threat. But surely the most urgent threat it posed to my health and well-being was the damage it was currently wreaking inside my body.
And yet.
The DC homicide detective’s face betrayed both irritation—I was ruining his burglar-on-a-roll theory—and grudging interest, as I laid out the events of the last two weeks. My family’s facial expressions would more accurately be described as appalled.
“Let me get this straight,” said Martin. “The Atlanta police are reopening a murder case because of evidence inside your neck.”
“They want to interview me,” I agreed. “Old case, new physical evidence.”
“Jesus frigging Christ,” roared Tony. “This is the ‘crazy stuff ’ you were hinting at? You’re at the center of an active homicide investigation? You didn’t think that was worth outright mentioning?”
“Tony,” my dad warned.
“And as for these Georgia police bozos,” Tony roared on, “who’s running things down there? Sheriff Rosco P. Coltrane? Has it not occurred to them that someone else might be interested in the new evidence? Someone with a personal stake in making sure that bullet never finds its way into police hands? Did it not occur—”
“Stop it. Just stop it. The police officer I met with in Atlanta is a good guy. Not a bozo. His name’s Beasley. He was on the original team that investigated, back in ’79.”
“Well, that’s a ringing endorsement,” snorted Tony. “Although I might be more impressed if they’d, say, solved the murders or caught the guy.”
I ignored this. “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to hype this into a bigger deal that it is. When they reopen an investigation, all it means is that a couple of people get assigned to comb over old files. There’s a Cold Case Squad—that’s what it’s actually called—that takes a look if fresh evidence comes to light. They’ve cautioned me not to expect much. And anyway,” I added, clinging to what Beasley had said, “whoever killed my birth parents may well be dead himself, after all these years.”
“Unless he’s not,” muttered Tony.
My dad and Martin nodded in apparent agreement.
I turned to where the DC detective sat perched on my sofa, looking a bit stunned. “Atlanta police will verify everything I’ve just told you. It’s been all over the newspaper down there.”
He sighed, as if this were the worst news yet. “You got a number for this Beasley that you can give me? I’ll check it out.”
“You do that,” snapped Tony. “And when you’re done, you can turn your attention to sorting out some police protection for my sister. As should have been done several days ago. Which, if it had been done, might have prevented her from being scared shitless last night. Meanwhile”—he swiveled back to me—“meanwhile, I’m taking you to buy a gun.”
“Tony! Will you stop being so dramatic?”
“I’m not being dramatic. I’m being practical.”
We sat glaring at each other.
Martin flicked his gaze back and forth between us. A good thirty seconds passed. Then, under his breath, he muttered, “Nice Rosco Coltrane reference.”
“Butt out,” Tony growled.
“Sure. Seriously, though. Skillfully done.” Martin leaned back, drummed his fingers on a side table, whistling softly. I hadn’t heard the tune in a long time, “Good Ol’ Boys.”
It took another half minute, but Tony cracked. A smile began to play around his lips. “Enos,” he whispered, in what sounded like an outrageous Southern accent. “Enos?”
Martin’s shoulders began to shake.
Tony, warming up now: “This is your superior officer, Sheriff Ros-cohhhhhhh P. Coltrane . . .”
Dad studied his sons in bewilderment. “What the hell are they talking about?”
“The Dukes of Hazzard,” I ventured. “That TV show they used to love. Wasn’t Roscoe the sidekick to, what’s his name, Boss Hogg?”
“Breaker One, Breaker One,” Martin drawled. “I may be crazy, but I ain’t dumb!”
I giggled. I couldn’t help it. Even Dad started to smile. The detective looked as if he wanted to flee.
I had never loved my brothers so much in my life.
Thirty
* * *
A decision was made that I should pack a bag and sleep at my parents’ house tonight. I didn’t resist. No way was I sleeping alone behind that broken bedroom door. My parents had a burglar alarm with motion detectors, and the beagle barked if a leaf so much as rustled in the yard. I would be safe.