the special election. You think he will?’’
Diane liked Canfield, but he surely was a talker. ‘‘I don’t know,’’ she said. ‘‘Sutton wanted to know the same thing when I spoke with him.’’
The sheriff laughed out loud. ‘‘I’ll bet he did. So let me get this straight. Jefferies was running some kind of cybergang that stole peoples’ identities—like run ning up their credit cards and stuff like that?’’
‘‘Or borrowing money from a mortgage company using a victim’s house as collateral, then pocketing the money and defaulting on the loan,’’ said Frank. ‘‘They also apply for new credit cards with a stolen identity and register a change of address for the victim. That way, the bills never reach the victim and he never even knows what has happened until thousands of dol lars in charges have been rung up. They have a thou sand different ways to steal money from you if they have the right information,’’ said Frank.
‘‘That just boggles the mind. I guess you get a lot of that kind of thing in Atlanta.’’ Canfield said
‘‘We do. But it’s everywhere. I imagine you get a lot here in the county, but most of the time people don’t report it. They just try to settle it with the card companies. It takes a couple of years on the average for a person to get their credit straightened out.’’
Canfield turned off the highway onto a dirt road. It was in good condition but still a little rough for Diane. There weren’t many houses in the area—mostly farms. It was beautiful in the daylight, but all that was visible in the dark was the road ahead, running between farm fences, patches of woods, and an occasional pair of animal eyes shining back from the darkness. The sher iff turned down another dirt road, and Diane thought she saw a mailbox at the intersection with the name
There were lights on inside the house and a car and two pickup trucks were parked in the drive. They got out of the sheriff’s truck and walked up to the house. The sheriff knocked, and Diane heard footsteps com ing to the door. It was opened by a woman whom Diane assumed to be Mrs. Wilson.
An electric shock ran through Diane. Not even thinking, her heart pounding, she sucked in her breath, readying herself to jump out of danger. It was the kind of autonomic fear response that comes from step ping on a snake.
But it was not a snake. There was no place to jump. It was a man standing in the shadow behind the open door. He was pointing a gun straight at Diane.
In the same instant she saw him, Diane realized that one of the pickup trucks in the driveway was a dark Ford Ranger—just like the perp had used at the mu seum. The one that had tried to run her down.
Chapter 50
It was the gun that Diane’s eyes froze on. A big, highcaliber silver and black thing, one that would make a big entry hole and an even bigger exit hole. Her gaze shifted to the face of the man holding the gun. It was Curtis Crabtree. She glanced at his left hand, the one not holding the gun. It was wrapped in a bandage meant to immobilize the thumb. He probably had a bite mark on his ankle.
Frank was just behind Diane. He had a hand on her upper arm, holding her tight in his grip. The three of them were stuck on the porch in the open doorway. No way to flee, not wanting to enter the house.
‘‘Well, I’ll be damned,’’ said Curtis. ‘‘Aren’t we in luck? Just the person we needed to see. Gage, when the boy gets here we’ll have everything we need.’’
Gage? There was someone else in the room. Gage Shipman, the third-floor overlook troll. Great. Two hotheads with guns.
Diane looked at Mrs. Wilson. She was dressed in a blue flowered robe and had rollers in her hair and a grave look on her face. Diane could see she was trembling. She didn’t blame her. She was about to start shaking herself.
‘‘Now, hold on here,’’ said the sheriff. ‘‘What do you think you’re up to?’’
‘‘Getting us a truckload of money. Now, get in here.’’ Curtis backed up, pulling Mrs. Wilson with him. ‘‘Do it,’’ he barked at them, ‘‘or I’ll start shooting. Gage and me only need one hostage apiece, so a lot of you are just extra. Now, get in here and sit your asses down. You, put your gun on the table,’’ said Curtis, aiming his gun at the sheriff.
The sheriff complied and the three of them went in and sat down together on a sofa. Mrs. Wilson sat in a straight-backed chair.
Diane was sure the three of them—she, the sheriff, and Frank—were thinking the same thing, and hoped it didn’t show on their faces. Curtis and Gage didn’t know Frank was a detective and they hadn’t searched him for a gun. A bit of good luck. But it also meant they were probably high on something and weren’t thinking clearly. A bad situation.
The problem was, Frank’s gun was inside his zipped-up suede jacket. Not easily accessible at the moment, but it was there. A small kernel of luck on their side.
Gage Shipman grinned at Diane. He had Henry sit ting on the floor next to his chair, a gun near Henry’s head but not pointing at him. Arlen Wilson was sitting in an easy chair that was probably where he sat to watch television. He had blood running down the side of his face. Probably hit with a gun when the two men came in the house. He was dressed in his pajamas, as was Henry.
‘‘What exactly are you doing here?’’ said the sheriff.
Frank sat quietly with his arms folded. Diane guessed that he wouldn’t say much lest he be outed as a detective. She tried to think of some way to dis tract the two thugs so Frank could get at his gun. But one thing she remembered Frank telling her—it’s not the gun you have that’s important; it’s the gun the other guy has.
Curtis and Gage ignored the sheriff.
‘‘Who’s this guy?’’ Curtis pointed his gun at Frank.
‘‘Boyfriend,’’ said Frank.
‘‘You mean you’ve actually got a boyfriend?’’ Curtis said to Diane. ‘‘Well, no accounting for taste. What do you do?’’ he asked Frank.
‘‘Accounting,’’ Frank said.
‘‘Accounting?’’ He laughed as if that were a joke. ‘‘Hey, Gage, we have an accountant.’’ He emphasized each syllable. ‘‘Maybe he can help us count our money.’’
‘‘I told you, we don’t have any money,’’ said Arlen Wilson. ‘‘We’re just farmers. Just leave us alone. We ain’t rich folks.’’
‘‘I know, you dumb ass,’’ said Curtis. ‘‘Caleb is the one who knows how to get the money. I told you.’’ He slurred his words just enough that Diane was sure Curtis was high on something.
‘‘Caleb’s just a student,’’ said Mrs. Wilson. ‘‘He don’t have any money.’’
