for a walk, took a couple of beers, watched the sunset. You’d narrow down where we were if you find the bottles. We dropped them when the shooting started.”
He took them through it, step by step.
“Dobie said it sounded like rifle fire,” he continued, “and it was coming from the trees. He grew up hunting in rural Kentucky, so I’m inclined to believe he’s right. We couldn’t see anyone. The first shot fired right around sunset. The whole thing probably only lasted about ten minutes. It seemed longer.”
“Have either of you had trouble with anyone, been threatened?” When Rowan merely arched her eyebrows, DiCicco inclined her head. “Other than Leo Brakeman.”
“We’re a little too busy around here to get into arguments with the locals or tourists.”
“Actually, there was an incident with you, Mr. Curry, Ms. Tripp and Mr. Karstain in the spring.”
“That would be when Rowan objected to one of those three yahoos’ behavior toward her, and them sopping their pride by ganging up on Dobie when he came out of the bar.”
“And you kicking their asses,” Rowan concluded. “Good times.”
“The same holds true on them as it did when we had the vandalism,” Gull continued. “It’s pretty hard to see them coming back here. And harder still to see any one of them staking us out from the woods and taking shots at us when we went for a walk. We’re in and out all the damn time anyway. Together, separately. It’s stretching it even more to figure those bozos from Illinois came all the way back, then got lucky when Ro and I walked out to give them some target practice.”
“How do you know they’re from Illinois?” DiCicco asked.
“Because that’s what the plate on the pickup said—and I did some checking on it after the ready room business.”
“You never told me that.”
Gull shrugged at Rowan. “It didn’t amount to anything to tell you. The big guy—and he was the alpha—owns a garage out in Rockford. He’s an asshole, and he’s had a few bumps for assaults—bar fights his specialty—but nothing major.” He shrugged again when DiCicco studied him. “The Internet. You can find out anything if you keep looking.”
“All right. You two have recently become involved,” DiCicco said. “Is there anyone who might resent that? Any former relationship?”
“I don’t date the kind of woman who’d take a shot at me.” He gave Rowan the eye. “Until maybe now.”
“I shoot all my former lovers, so your fate’s already set.”
“Only if we get to the former part.” He covered her hand with his. “It was either a local with a grudge against one or both of us specially, or the base in general. Or a wacko who wanted to shoot up a federal facility.”
“A terrorist?”
“I think a terrorist would’ve used more ammo,” Gull said to DiCicco. “But any way you slice it, he was a crap shot. Unless he’s a really good shot and was just trying to scare and intimidate.”
Rowan’s gaze sharpened. “I didn’t think of that.”
“I think a lot. I can’t swear to it, but I think the closest one hit about six or seven feet away from where we hit the ground. That’s not a comfortable distance when bullets are involved, but it’s a distance. Another sounded like it hit metal, the hangar. Way above our heads. Maybe it’ll turn out to be a couple of kids on a dare. Smoke jumpers think they’re so cool, let’s go make them piss their pants.
“It’s a theory,” he claimed when Rowan rolled her eyes.
“Lieutenant.” A uniformed cop stepped in.
“Hi, Barry.”
“Ro. Glad you’re okay. Sir, we found the weapon, or what we believe to be the weapon.”
“Where?”
“About twenty yards into the trees. A Remington 700 model—bolt action. The special edition. It was covered up with leaves.”
“Stupid,” Rowan mumbled. “Stupid to leave it there.”
“More stupid if it’s got a brass name plaque on the stock,” L.B. said. “I went hunting with Leo Brakeman last fall, and he carried a special edition 700. He was real proud of it.”
Rowan’s hand balled into a fist under Gull’s. “So much for theories.”
When DiCicco and Quinniock went out to examine the weapon, L.B. walked over to the coffeemaker.
“You know,” Ro said, “she told those lies to her father. All those lies, and they drove him to come out here with a gun and try to kill me.”
“I’d say you’re half right.” L.B. sat with his coffee, sighed. “The lies drove him to come out here with a gun, but, like I said, I’ve been hunting with Leo. I saw him take down a buck with that rifle, at thirty yards with the buck on the run. If he’d wanted to put a bullet in you, you’d have a bullet in you.”
“I guess it was my lucky day then.”
“Something snapped in him. I’m not excusing him, Ro. There’s no excuse for this. But something’s snapped in him. What the hell’s Irene going to do now? Her daughter murdered, and her husband likely locked up, an infant to care for. She hasn’t even buried Dolly yet, and now this.”
“I’m sorry for them. For all of them.”
“Yeah, it’s a damn sorry situation. I’m going to go see if the cops will tell me what happens next.” He went out, leaving his untouched coffee behind.
18
Too wound up to sit, Rowan pushed up, wandered the room, peeked out the window, circled back. Gull propped his feet on the chair she’d vacated and decided to drink L.B.’s abandoned coffee.
“I want to
“I’m doing something.”
“Drinking coffee doesn’t count as something.”
“I’m sitting here, I’m drinking coffee. And I’m thinking. I’m thinking if it’s Brakeman’s rifle, and if Brakeman was the one shooting it, did he just go stand in the trees and assume you’d eventually wander out into range?”
“I don’t know if it had to be me. He’s pissed at all of us, just mostly at me.”
“Okay, possible.” He found the coffee bitter, wished for a little sugar to cut the edge. But just didn’t feel like getting up for it. “So Brakeman stands in the woods with his rifle, staking out the base. He gets lucky and we come along. If he’s as good a shot as advertised, why did he miss?”
“Because it has to be a hell of a lot different to shoot a human being than a buck. Nerves. Or he couldn’t bring himself to kill me—us—and decided to scare us to death instead.”
“Also possible. Why leave the weapon? Why leave a special edition, which had to cost, which he cared enough about to put his name on, under a pile of leaves? Why leave it behind at all when he had to know the cops would do a search?”
“Panic. Impulse. He wasn’t thinking clearly—obviously. Hide it, get out, come back for it another time. And maybe take a few more shots.” She stopped, rubbed at the tension in the back of her neck as she studied Gull. “And you don’t think Leo Brakeman shot at us.”
“I think it might be interesting to know who had access to his gun. Who might’ve liked causing him trouble, and wouldn’t feel too bad about scaring you doing it.” He sipped at the coffee. “But it could’ve been Brakeman following impulse, getting lucky, being nervous and panicking.”
“When you say it like that, it’s a lot to swallow.”
She plopped down in L.B.’s chair as Gull had opened her mind to alternatives. And thinking
“I guess his wife would have access, but I have a hard time seeing her doing this. Plus, I’ve never heard of
