2:52 P.M.
Devlin and Randall emerged from the tree-lined driveway to be greeted by a modest-sized, well-maintained, A-framed cabin made of large, horizontally oriented logs. Further back, and to the left of the cabin, sat a red, gambrel-framed barn.
The agents strolled toward the main house.
Breathing harder than normal, Randall blew out puffy clouds ahead of the twosome.
She glimpsed the load in his outstretched arms then studied him. “You okay?”
“I’ll be fine in a minute.”
Her eyes drifted to the woman’s body he carried. “I’m feeling bad for making you bring her with us.”
He shook his head. “Don’t. It was the right thing to do.”
FIFTEEN MINUTES AGO...
“We need to get going.” Randall flung an arm toward the north. “Hammer is still on the move, and we’re falling behind. We don’t have the luxury of burying her.”
“We can’t just leave her here to be eaten by wild animals, either.”
He turned away from Devlin and ran fingers through his hair before scratching his scalp. “We can cover her with snow—a lot of snow—and come back when this is over...or send someone back.” He dug out his mobile and held it up. “You got any reception?”
“I haven’t had a signal since shortly after climbing onto those ATVs.”
“Me neither.” He stowed the device and plopped hands onto hips while eyeing the deceased woman.
Devlin glanced over her shoulder to see the start of the driveway they had spotted earlier. “We could,” she came back to him, “take her with us.”
Randall cocked his head at her then pointed downward. “She just tried to kill you—us—a little bit ago. And now you want to carry her,” he looked back, “however far it is to this place we’re going to?”
“Noah,” her voice subdued, Devlin squared shoulders with him, “we can’t leave her here. That S.O.B. just dumped her by the side of the road when she became too much of a burden to him.”
“She just admitted that she was the one who killed that cop.”
Devlin pumped her hands at her partner. “I know she’s responsible for innocent deaths. Believe me. I know.” A beat. “But when I looked into her eyes a minute ago, I saw what I believe was true remorse.” Recalling her Catholic upbringing—a faith which she had fallen away from in recent years, and to which she was now slowly returning—Devlin remembered a Scripture passage about forgiving someone seven times seventy times. “I mean that remorse, that repentance has to count for something, doesn’t it,” she glimpsed the dead woman, “even if it comes at the very end of one’s life?”
He squinted at Samantha’s body.
Devlin faced him. “Besides, is that who we really are...you and me? Are we no better than the jackass who disposed of her like she was a sack of garbage?”
The deputy marshal sent his partner, his friend, a long look before hanging his head and letting a drawn-out sigh escape his lungs.
PRESENT TIME...
Randall glanced at Devlin. “I was wrong. You were right. This,” he hefted Samantha’s body a little higher, “was the right thing to do. I should be the one who—”
“That’s far enough!”
The agents turned to face the gruff voice coming from the direction of the cabin.
Standing on the porch, most of his body shielded by one of four vertical log pillars, a man in his sixties posed with a lever action rifle pressed into his right shoulder. “I may be old, but I can still shoot, especially from this distance.”
“Oh,” Randall growled under his breath while finishing a curse. “I really do hate it when people point guns at me.”
The old man lifted the rifle’s muzzle a couple times. “Get your hands up.”
Devlin lifted her arms. “Take it easy, sir.”
“I said get your hands up there, mister.”
Randall glimpsed his hundred-pound-plus bundle and snarled at the man. “Little hard to do, buddy, don’t you think?”
Not looking at him, Devlin laid her left hand on his right shoulder. “Don’t provoke him. I’ll take care of this.”
He shot her a sideways glance. “When have I ever provoked anyone? Besides, he’s got the gun, and I’m holding a—”
Gunman: “I won’t tell you again. Hands in the air.”
Still cradling the corpse, Randall showed the man his palms and wiggled his fingers. “See? Aren’t they pretty? They’re soft, too. I use moisturizer.”
She cranked her head toward Randall. “Tell me again how you never provoke anyone.” Devlin reversed course to face the rifleman. “Sir, my name is Jessica Devlin. I’m a United States Marshal. And this is Deputy Marshal Noah Randall. We’re here, because we need your help. We’ve been chasing a fugitive from justice, a bank robber who’s killed innocent people.”
Five seconds later, the old-timer lowered his long gun to forty-five degrees. “A bank robber, you say?”
“That’s right.”
“How do I know you’re who you say you are?”
Randall thrust out his chin toward the man. “If it helps, I could take out my gun and shoot you between the eyes.”
Devlin whirled on her partner. “Noah. Please.”
“Hey. Cut me some slack, will you? My arms are starting to feel like waterlogged noodles.”
Regarding the homeowner, “Sir,” she pointed at her coat, “if you’ll let me unzip my jacket, I can show you my badge.”
He thought a moment then poked his rifle at her. “Go ahead...slowly.”
She unzipped her jacket and pulled back the right half.
“Drop the gun on the ground and come closer, so I can get a better look.”
“I can’t do that. This gun was a gift from my father for my twenty-first birthday. It doesn’t leave my side.”
“Just keep your hands high then.”
Devlin crossed the snow-covered terrain, stopped at the porch, three feet away from the man, and displayed her shield again.
He studied the shiny metal.
“I have a,” she eased her right hand in between her jacket and her shirt, “cred pack as well I can show you.”
“What’s a cred pack?”
“Credentials...identifying me as a,” she flipped open a bi-fold wallet and held it out to the man, “federal agent.”
Upon seeing her face and name linked with the words United States Marshal, he came out from behind the pillar, lowered his weapon, and held it by the receiver while squinting at Randall. “And you say he’s with you?”
“He is.”
“Kind of a wise-cracker, isn’t he?”
Devlin smiled. “Yeah, but that wise-cracker would step in front of a bullet for me in a heartbeat.”
He acknowledged her with a single nod. “Always good to have someone like that in your corner.”
“I agree. What’s your name, sir?”
“Bentley. Wilbur Bentley. Call me Wilbur.”
“Thank you, Wilbur.”
He scratched his chin. “What’s that fellow carrying, anyway? Hard to make out in all this snow, but is that what I think it is?”
“I’m afraid that’s part of the reason why we’re here.”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
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