Zeb kept them away from major streets and roads. They cut across office buildings and parking lots, all empty. It was early Sunday morning.
There was no traffic. No vehicles, no pedestrians.
Red lights blinked lazily at crossings.
‘Gramps is on Farloe Street,’ she spoke over his shoulder as they surveyed Main Street from the shelter of a bar’s building.
‘I know where it is.’ She tugged at his jacket impatiently. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Wait.’
He kept watching. Trying to get a feel for Erilyn.
It was like thousands of small towns across the country.
Main Street. Small stores. Banks. Wide pavements. Trees lining the sidewalks.
In the distance, the white spire of a church.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘Namir and his men.’
‘You think he will be in town?’
‘I don’t know.’
He started again, taking his cues from her whispered directions.
She took the lead after a while, almost running in her haste to meet her grandfather.
‘There.’ She pointed to a white-walled house.
A large porch. A neatly maintained front yard. A pick-up truck in the driveway. A flag flapping in the wind.
It was the cruiser that drew his attention.
It was parked behind the truck. No one inside it.
Sara didn’t heed his wait up.
She broke away from him, raced to the door and banged on it.
‘Gramps!’ she cried out.
She pounded it again, her tear-streaked face turning back once in Zeb’s direction.
She had raised her fist again when the door opened.
A tall man opened the door.
White-haired. White shirt neatly tucked into blue jeans, despite the early hour.
Zeb climbed onto the porch.
The man didn’t look at him. Worry lining his face.
Relief replacing it instantly.
‘Honey,’ he opened his hands.
Sara hugged him tight, sobbing.
The door shut behind them.
Zeb waited patiently. He could hear the crying from inside. Muffled questions. Broken answers.
The old man’s ‘My God!’
Another voice joined in.
Rapid footsteps approached the door.
It opened again.
Sara, brushing her eyes with her sleeve.
‘Sorry, Zeb. Please come in. Gramps, this is—’
‘Mr. Carter?’ A burly police officer brushed past the girl. ‘Chief of Police Terry Schwartz.’
The porch steps creaked.
A uniformed deputy was climbing up the steps behind him, not in the best of shape. Huffing, wheezing. Reid Frazier, his nameplate proclaimed. ‘You got licenses for those guns, buddy?’
‘You’re carrying many injuries, Mr. Carter.’ Schwartz stated, his face expressionless, his hands close to his holstered gun.
‘The HKs, the M24, those aren’t mine. I’ve got permits for the Glocks,’ Zeb replied. ‘The wounds … we met some people.’
Something’s not right.
‘Can I see them? The licenses?’ Frazier extended a hand, barely concealing a knowing look. His free arm was hooked on his belt.
‘Not here, Reid. Sara and Pete have a lot of talking to do.’
‘Pete?’ he called over his shoulder, his eyes still on Zeb.
‘Yes?’ the grandfather’s face was wrinkled with worry, hugging the girl with one hand.
‘I’ll send over an ambulance. Another cruiser, but that might take a while. We’re short-handed, as you know.’
The white-haired man nodded, his eyes meeting Zeb’s briefly. Dropping away.
He’s embarrassed?
‘Mr. Carter. You need to come along with us, sir. Hand over your weapons. Slowly.’
‘What?’ Sara exclaimed, freeing herself and pushing forward, as the cops took his guns. ‘No. Zeb helped me. Gramps, what’s going on?’
‘They are taking him to the station, honey. To answer some questions. It’s routine.’
‘No!’ She grabbed Frazier by the shoulder and spun him around. ‘He saved my life.’
‘That’s not the story we heard, ma’am.’
A shocked silence.
‘What?’ she breathed.
‘We have witnesses. Mr. Carter killed some hikers. He might have been involved in Kenton’s death.’