“Not much else out there but rock. Got a lot of that, all of it standing on end.”
“How long were you there?”
“Why do you care?”
“Call me curious,” she said.
“Call me classified.”
Behind them an official vehicle came on fast, light bar flashing and siren screaming the need for speed.
Mac pulled over like a good citizen.
The sheriff’s car blew past them into the darkness.
“Guess he’s late to the barbeque,” Mac said.
She grimaced, thought about calling Faroe, and decided against it until she knew more. There was no point in waking her boss up to share the ignorance.
“I’ll wait until the sheriff’s car is out of sight,” Mac said. “Then I’m going to speed like a dirty bastard. Every official in a twelve-mile radius will already be at the fire.”
Mac hit the accelerator hard. Being a rental, the Jeep took its time getting up to eighty.
And that was all it had. Eighty.
“What a piece of crap,” he muttered.
“Wheels need alignment or balancing,” Emma said. “Or both.”
“What it needs is another engine.”
“That, too. Sweet thing is, the mileage really sucks.”
Mac almost smiled. Emma was that rare find in a partner, male or female-easy to be with.
Especially when she pulled a Glock from her purse and checked it over with the motions of someone who knew which end of a gun bit and which didn’t.
“Think we’ll need that?” he asked.
“I think I’d rather be ready than point my index finger and say ‘bang.’” She put the weapon back into her purse.
They drove in silence until they rounded the long curve half a mile from Tommy’s lane. Instantly Mac lifted his foot off the accelerator and began losing speed fast.
At least sixteen official vehicles were parked on both sides of Tribal Road, light bars wheeling. The lane to Tommy’s trailer was choked with more vehicles. Their lights stabbed through the woods in flashes of blue and red and spotlight-white.
Wary of making a loud screeching noise, Mac slowly engaged the emergency brake.
“Tommy’s place,” he said.
“How did you know?” Emma asked tightly, reaching for her cell phone. “Was the address on the scanner?”
“Not in so many words. But even on the rez, most people have addresses. The place that burned didn’t.” He glanced at her phone. “Don’t bother waking Faroe up yet. We don’t know what’s going on.”
Dead slow, the Jeep bumped along the verge of the road. After about sixty feet, Mac stopped, reversed, cranked the wheel, and started backing up. Once there had been another nameless lane here, but someone had moved on or died and everything was completely overgrown now.
As the Jeep backed in, it bent brush and small saplings away from the vehicle. Branches shivered and scraped. Most of the undergrowth sprang back upright after the Jeep passed.
When they were invisible from the road, Mac turned and looked Emma over, taking in her outfit.
Before he could open his mouth, she started removing her watch and small earrings, things that could reflect light, giving away her position. It had been years since she had been trained in covert ops, but it was coming back to her. Along with a wave of adrenaline.
“Any mud nearby?” she asked.
“I don’t think I’ll need it for camouflage. I don’t want to get that close.”
“If you think I’m staying here, you’re not smart enough to sign on with St. Kilda.”
Mac had been expecting that since he’d seen the Glock. He didn’t waste time arguing with her. He just fished around on the floor and tossed her one of the black knit caps he had stuffed under the seat.
“Pull it on,” he said, reaching down again for his own cap.
“You carrying?”
“Knife,” he said. “Quieter than a gun.”
“Range bites.”
His lips quirked. “I’ve got a good arm.”
Together they eased out into the night. Emma followed him as he angled through brush and around bigger trees, always holding his course to the same general direction. When the moonlight was bright enough, she could see the faint line of the overgrown trail Mac was following. She tried to make as little noise as he did, but it had been a long time since she’d gone through night training.
They walked for ten minutes before they began to catch the smell of burning excrement and garbage, bitter and foul and disgusting, like a trash fire jacked on steroids. Through a screen of trees and brush, they saw flashes of bright red lights on emergency vehicles and the steady white spears of headlights parked at all angles.
Emma didn’t need Mac’s signal to freeze and drop. She was already on her belly, wriggling as close as she could. A hand on her ankle halted her. Mac slithered along her left side and breathed into her ear.
“Eyes.”
For an instant she didn’t understand. Then it came back to her in a rush of memory and knowledge. She nodded. She wouldn’t get close enough to the action that her eyes reflected light.
What remained of the trailer was a sullen, stinking pile of twisted wreckage. Firemen circled it in turnout gear. They called back and forth, kicking at rubble and bent metal, looking for anything that still was hot enough to produce flames. Occasional bursts of water from their hoses added to the stench.
She leaned close enough to Mac’s ear to feel the heat of his body. “Overgrown wreck,” she breathed. “Two o’clock.”
Eyes narrowed, Mac judged the possibilities. His face looked grim in the pulsing light from the clearing. His black gaze switched to hers, then vanished as his lips brushed her ear.
“Wait here. You’re out of practice.”
She went stiff, then relaxed. When it came to slithering through the woods, he was better than she was. A lot better. She’d been trained for city work, recruiting rather than recon.
She signaled for him to go. Then she got as close to the pungent forest floor as she could and still peer through the undergrowth into the clearing.
Mac set off at an angle to a place where there was a group of rez types talking and gesturing. They were so engrossed by the grisly scene that Mac could have walked right up to them.
He didn’t. He just got close enough to eavesdrop.
“…was always looking for trouble.”
“Sure found it.” The man spat on the churned ground.
Mac saw the glint of a badge at the man’s belt and recognized him as a tribal cop.
“Arson. Damn.” The smaller man almost danced in place with excitement. “Wonder who did it?”
“Half the rez hated Tommy’s ass.” The cop spat again, as though the taste of the air was getting to him. “Besides, he might be out on a boat. Might be someone else was sleeping in his trailer.”
Mac hoped the cop was right but doubted it. Tommy hadn’t had any other place to go while he waited for
And he’d been scared.
Floodlights from two fire engines played back and forth over the lumpy, twisted rubble like stiff white fingers combing the wreckage.
“There,” called one of the firemen.
The floodlights paused, then converged on a corner of the ruins. The wind swirled, increasing the unmistakable odor of barbeque gone wrong.
Ugly memories drenched Mac, men burning, dying, dead. Long ago, far away, and as fresh as the bile rising up his throat. He’d hoped never to smell that particular kind of death again.
“Jesus Christ,” the fireman said. “Half his skull is gone. I mean, just flat gone. What the-”
“Knock it off!” said a woman’s voice. “This is a crime scene.”
